Letters from the Silent
by Have Faith In Yourself
Summary: 'It probably started because of a stupid idea. Wait, no... it probably started because of the Dare. The Dare, of course, being a stupid idea. By Alfred.' Without a voice and with his own words coming back to haunt him, Matthew needs someone to hold on to. What he's getting instead is even more pain. Why couldn't anyone leave his skeletons in the closet, and his past in the past?
1. The Dare

**A/N: **This... is... depressing. I'm just going to say that now. So when you get to the end and feel depressed because of how horrible this is, don't say I didn't warn you. Because I will point you right back up here.

It's REALLY ironic that the doc this is under is labeled "Something Cute". Because this is about as far from Cute as possible.

**Title: **Letters from the Silent**  
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**Genre:** Is "Depressing" a genre? Angst/Hurt/Comfort.**  
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**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, America/Alfred F. Jones, England/Britain/Arthur Kirkland. Mentions of France/Francis Bonnefoy**  
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**Pairing: **N/A this chapter. Maybe UKCan if you squint.**  
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**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Word Count: **2455

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><p><strong>Letters from the Silent<strong>

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><p>It probably started at first because of a stupid idea.<p>

Wait, no... it probably started at first because of The Dare.

The Dare, of course, being a stupid idea. By Alfred.

Matthew could hardly think back to what the exact words of 'The Dare' had been, now. Something about writing everything for a month since his voice was so quiet it would be the only way to have people know what he was saying. That month had passed in selective mutism, where everything he wanted to convey had to be done with words. He had written a lot of letters to Alfred, and to Francis, and to Arthur, and mostly to himself. The letters he didn't 'send' (some were really sent in the post, some were handed to their recipients) he tucked away in a cardboard box beneath a loose floorboard in Arthur's big, posh, English house.

Those were mostly the letters he wrote himself.

_Why do you let yourself be silent without a fight? -Day 2_

Carefully written words, written with the hand of a young boy who was still getting accustomed to a pencil, adorned most of the pages. Some of them were written in Arthur's best blue fountain pen (he had always gotten caught when he used it and the pages, as evidence, were smudged from where the ink would rub onto his hands) and a few in Alfred's favorite red crayon (that crayon had broken shortly after) and even a few in the green artist pen that Francis had sent him to replace the one he lost (He still had that pen in his house... somewhere).

Matthew wondered sometimes if the box was still there, under the floorboard. If it was, then it would likely never move, for all of eternity, and his scribbled words of long ago would be forgotten to the sands of time. Something that hadn't been disturbed in almost 300 years would probably never be disturbed. Probably for the best - those letters had depressed him back then, and would likely only depress him now.

If he remembered correctly, the letters he 'sent' to Arthur remained unopened.

He wasn't sure what became of the ones he sent Francis - or the ones he got back from his father figure. He knew Alfred had used the letters he received to make paper mache soldiers to battle the red coated ones Arthur had given him.

No matter what he had done back then, the people he lived with hadn't cared.

_Why don't you act to make them care? -Day 4_

He had written fifteen letters to himself, just short little epithets, one every two days as it got worse and worse. They were numbered, too, on the back of the cards. So he could always tell which order they were in. Day one had been half decent, and by day two, he was feeling ignored. Alfred would sometimes look at him, and see him, and say, "Don't give up on the dare, or I'll use _your_ soldiers to battle mine! I'll go to war with you!"

Day three, he wanted to talk. He wanted to, but didn't. He gave them letters, every day. Sometimes three and four and five letters. Things he wanted them to know that he couldn't say aloud. He was torn when he saw Alfred tearing up his letters, his words, as carelessly as though they didn't matter - as though _he_ didn't matter. And maybe he didn't to them. Maybe they just didn't care.

Day five, he felt anger welling in the pit of his stomach. He got his first letter back from Francis that day, but Arthur hadn't even so much as looked at him for the past five days. Alfred would play alone, making shooting noises and mowing down the redcoats with his newly made paper mache soldiers. Matt could stand in front of him, waiting to be noticed, and never have it happen. Alfred would put his toys away and then idly wonder what he, Matthew, had been doing that day.

_You're screaming at them inside. -Day 6_

Day seven, he tried as best as he could to make them pay attention to him, without breaking the bet. He found Arthur's letters, the ones from that day and the week before, lying unopened in his dresser drawer. Day eight, he stole them back and threw them in the fireplace, one by one, watching the paper curl and blacken and the words, like his voice, disappear.

Why had he so foolishly thought that they would care? Arthur had an entire empire to take care of, and if they weren't connected by a border several thousand miles long - even today, in the new millenium, Alfred didn't quite care what happened to him up north, if he got snowed in or starved for several days before being able to eat again it wouldn't affect Alfred in the least - if they weren't connected, he would be nothing to Alfred.

Why did he think that he would matter? He was just a cold, worthless colony with wood and water and beavers, lots of beavers.

_You're screaming at yourself. -Day 8_

He wrote to Francis every day, and got letters back every day for his trouble. It was hard, he wrote, he felt ignored. He hated it. He wanted to be with Francis again, where he was always noticed, where he wasn't forgotten. He wanted to be home.

On day nine, Kumajirou had looked at him blankly and wondered who he was. Tears had welled up in his eyes - the bear he had been with for millennia, for the first time, couldn't even remember his name.

Alfred and Arthur had argued that day, as they invariably had for the past month. They always argued now, and Matt was a silent observer. Always in the background, never in the fore. Maybe it was for the best.

__You want to disappear. -Day 10__

In the middle of the night, around midnight, the start of day eleven and the ending of day ten, he had actually broken the Dare. He was only a third of the way through it, but he couldn't keep going in this total silence. He had slipped out of his and Alfred's shared room, down the hall to the bathroom, and sat in the washing tub silently for about an hour before he had opened his mouth and spoken in what he believed to be a normal leveled voice. "This is too hard."

The voice his ears heard was barely above a mumble.

His silent sobs had settled him back to sleep after a couple of hours, when the sun was just barely rising. Arthur found him around noon, wondering why he was sleeping in the bathtub, and why his face was so dirty when he was in the washroom. A solid berating later and Matthew was sent to his room for insolence, and not answering, when he was just too miserable to answer. Arthur had forgotten about the Dare.

_You want to die. -Day 12_

Francis missed a day on day twelve. His letter didn't come.

Matthew had again curled up in his room, hiding in his closet and closing his eyes. Francis had promised, in his first letter, that he would send one back every day. It would save Matthew the feeling of being forgotten, at least by one person.

While he was hiding, Kumajirou had come into the closet and curled next to him comfortingly. He almost felt comforted-then the bear had opened its mouth.

"Who are you?"

At that moment, Matthew had wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and stay there for the rest of eternity.

_You want to. -Day 14_

Most of the week after that had passed in a blur. Alfred had gotten new clothes, a formal suit and tie. Both he and Matthew shot up in height on day thirteen of the dare. Physically, now, they were about eighteen. Matt briefly realized he had been about twelve the day before - Alfred had been 13 - and a rebellious teenager.

Somehow, Matt was thankful that he had seemingly skipped puberty, and the rebellious portion of it.

Alfred still argued with Arthur at every step of the way, however. Neither one took notice when Matthew would slip away more and more often. On the fifteenth day, halfway through the Dare, he had skipped dinner entirely. He went downstairs hours later to see the table completely cleaned, not even his plate had been left out for him.

_You will. -Day 16_

On day seventeen, he stopped writing letters to Francis. He still slipped a couple of letters to Alfred every now and then, and Arthur, but now he barely ever sat down to write. He wasn't even sure why he was still writing to Arthur, when he already knew the Brit wouldn't read them.

One he had written to Arthur had read something like this:

**April 4th, 1775**

**Arthur,  
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**I know you probably won't read this, or even realize that I gave it to you, or even recognize who I am. But in the case where I simply **(here the writing was smudged and the paper was a bit stained from water damage, though Matthew would never _admit_ he had been crying while writing it) **disappear, and the miraculous idea that maybe you would notice, I wanted to leave tangible evidence to say I'm sorry. I should never have taken this stupid Dare **(even during the Dare he had capitalized it, sensing its inherent importance) **because if I had never had taken it, then maybe you would still recognize that there are two boys in this house. Soon there will only be one. And maybe soon after that, none at all. **(He had assumed that he would be the one to disappear from the house first, however, so Alfred's leaving first was rather a slap to his face - he couldn't even do _suicide_ without Alfred taking the spotlight away) **So in the case you actually recall that you had a colony named Canada, that you stole away from France, that had come to accept and even respect you as a ruler, I'm sorry I was never more like Alfred.**

_Soon. -Day 18_

After his suicide note that he was sure Arthur hadn't read, he had taken a few days to hide away and build up his courage to actually do the deed. There was a lot of crying during those days. He had only written one note from the day he wrote to Arthur to the day he attempted it:_  
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_Die. -Day 20_

On day twenty, he had walked out of Arthur's house with a bag containing only one item, out into the woods nearby. He found a large tree with open roots and curled himself in one of the spaces, just sitting there and staring into nowhere for an hour before he moved again. He pulled out his bag, bringing it to sit in his lap again, and opened it carefully; from it, he extracted the one item he had brought with him.

The serrated kitchen knife would _hurt_, yes, but it would serve his purposes better than anything else. He brought the jagged edge up to his throat, hesitating for just a second before ripping it across the skin with a pained yelp. He let it drop from his hand limply as everything faded out to black.

But he had woken up, hours later in the middle of the night, his throat healed and only the slightest indication of a scar there. He ran two fingers over the slightly raised skin and winced at a bit of phantom pain, confused as to why he was still there. Why he was still alive.

_Just die. -Day 22_

He tried again, two days later, convinced that maybe it had been a fluke. His hands shook as again, he curled beneath the tree and again, he raised the knife. The sense of deja vu was too strong for it to be coincidence, for the first bit to be a dream.

Again, he woke up. Again, the wound had healed. The scar on his neck was now barely noticeable to the naked eye, and he had cleaned the knife and slipped it back into the drawer with all the others. He had curled in his room, wondering what was wrong with him that he couldn't die. Canada wasn't that important of a nation, it could probably easily have some human be born with the strange genetic coding that let them all age strangely, and live forever, and be affected by the things that affected the nation...

He returned to the house, late, and wandered into the kitchen. Arthur was sitting there having a cup of tea, and barely even looked up when Matthew returned the knife.

Matthew returned to bed a few moments later, and didn't see Arthur stand to go pull the knife free, or the way the Brit looked worriedly up the stairs after him.

_Why? -Day 24_

When Matthew again broke the Dare in the middle of the night on the twenty fifth, his voice wouldn't even rise to a whisper. He had cried, for a total of five minutes, before slipping out of the bathroom and into Arthur's room. He found his folded suicide note, exactly where he had left it. It didn't look like the seal had been broken. He pulled it off the dresser, glancing at the sleeping Arthur with tears still in his eyes, and left the room to put the note with the others he had written to himself.

He couldn't remember what happened the last five days of the Dare. All he could remember was watching silently as the arguments between Arthur and Alfred escalated almost to blows. He brought Arthur his tea like he had for every evening since his ceding, and received no acknowledgment. The Brit was still incensed over Alfred.

_Please. -Day 26_

_Please God. -Day 28_

He recalled that on day 29, when he had brought Arthur his tea, the Brit had raged at him and at Alfred, though Alfred wasn't in the room. He had silently taken a blow to the cheek from the enraged Brit.

Five seconds later, Arthur had regained his composure and apologized profusely, tending to the bruising skin on his cheek with such tenderness and care that Matthew couldn't help but cry.

It felt too fake. Too forced._  
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_Just let me disappear. -Day 30_

Day 31, April 19th, 1775, Alfred declared war.

And Matt found himself, somewhat, wanted and needed again. A sad pittance that he had traded his voice, his confidence, and most of his identity away for.

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><p><em><strong>AN: <strong>_**Well... that was depressing. I might write an omake for this, or maybe several possible omakes, where someone finds the letters and then it turns into fluff between Mattie and that person. Just to make this stop being so effing depressing. Submit a review with the Canada pairing of your choice if you want that to happen.****  
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	2. Japan, The First Letter

**A/N: **A little bit of my favorite Headcanon for all of you: Canada SO writes mature books under a female penname. And all of the nations adore his alter ego. His biggest fans are Hungary and Japan, with Prussia and Germany as close seconds. Even Arthur has a guilty pleasure reading them.

America is a close third after Prussia and Germany, though he'll never admit it to anyone but his brother, who still finds it hilariously ironic. Canada has been writing them for so long now that it's a form of release, and he can't imagine letting his alter ego 'die'. When she gets too old, he lets her 'younger sister' or 'daughter' or someone else take up the mantle. He has had four or five different author personas, which have all been immensely popular with the nations.

And He's still too terrified to admit he writes them.

Even though he's phenomenal at it.

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If you think that headcanon should become a story, then it will someday. Telling me so might make it happen a bit sooner. Though I warn you - it would be PruCan.

For the simple line of "Maddchen is a Madchen!"

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship. FLUFF.**  
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**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, Japan/Kiku Honda**  
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**Pairing: **Japan/Canada fluff**  
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**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Word Count: **3502, much longer than I thought it would be.**  
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><p><strong>Omake 1: Japan<strong>

"THE FIRST LETTER"**  
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><p>"Igirisu-san?" Kiku's voice called out as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to Arthur's house, the house he had kept for most of his history. He had asked the Brit if he could look for something he had left in his home (though the island nation would never admit, it was a yaoi doujin that he was actually quite fond of that he and Hungary-chan had designed together, featuring America and England himself. He didn't want to risk the Brit finding it for fear of it ruining their friendship).<p>

Arthur had told him that, yes, he could find it any time if he felt like coming over, though he was going to be away for a week off visiting his former colonies as he did every year. Kiku thought, at the moment, that he was with Hong Kong. At least, Hong Kong had sent him an email saying 'Daddy's here, going to be out of touch'.

Kiku was one of the few people who knew that Hong Kong referred to Arthur as 'Daddy'.

He peered unsurely into the big, posh, empty seeming house, hesitant to enter even though he had permission.

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><p>Across the ocean, Matthew paused from his work to lean back in his office chair and to breathe for a few moments, letting his eyes close. His fingers tapped idly at his keyboard, not really pressing anything, and he let his thoughts wander as they often had and did and probably would to the letters he had sent back before the Revolutionary War. His voice had returned, for the most part, though he was still quite more soft spoken than all of the other nations. Alfred sometimes teased him that he ought to speak up, or his voice would fade to nonexistence.<p>

Matthew didn't think he realized that it almost had.

He opened his eyes again, barely noting that his glasses could use a cleaning. Enough time had passed now that he had almost gotten over the depression from the Dare. Of course, it probably would never be fully gone; and his voice would probably never be the same until it was.

He sighed, pulling off his glasses to clean them, and pushed up from the chair. Maybe if he cleaned his house again, he'd stop thinking about these depressing things. God knew that his house was never fully clean. (Damnit Kuma-what's-your-face.)

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><p>Kiku entered the house quietly and walked toward the staircase, up the stairs toward the room he had been staying in when he stayed the night with Arthur. It was a very small room, in comparison to most of the other rooms, and it had had two beds in it, one of which he had slept on. The dresser beside the bed was quaint and had enough space to hold his clothes, and it had a lamp on it that was useful for reading manga late at night when he didn't want to disturb Arthur. The space beneath the bed had been a perfect place to hide important things that he didn't want anyone finding for the time he was there.<p>

He stooped down to his knees, peering under the bed, and sighted the doujin in the corner just where he had left it. When he reached, his sleeve snagged on something and the floorboard moved, revealing a space beneath.

His curiosity got the better of him, and he peered into the space, seeing a small, ratty cardboard box. At one time it might have been decorated, colored even, and there were still smudges of wax where it might have been colored with a crayon. It was only about as long as his hand, from wrist to fingertip (And Japan had small hands) and only about half as wide.

He pulled it out gingerly, along with his doujin, and set his first goal aside to examine this new find.

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><p>Matthew grabbed the broom from the hall closet, beginning his everlasting battle against Kuma-something-or-another's fur. He glanced at the bear, laying on the couch, and sighed. Another thing he'd have to clean.<p>

Kuma just looked up blankly at him, and sniffed the air a couple of times. "Unknown upset again." he said, as though stating the weather, "Unknown upset a lot. What wrong?"

It had been a long time, and though Kuma never referred to him as Canada or Matthew, 'Unknown' was almost a step up from the constant 'who'ing. _Almost._

"Just thinking about the past." he pat his bear on the head, and the animal curled up to go back to sleep in response. Unaffected, Matthew started cleaning.

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><p>Kiku gingerly unfolded the cardboard paper that made up the box, trying not to make it crumble. It seemed incredibly old... he peered inside. There were folded slips of paper in it, most with numbers showing and a couple without. He sorted through them, finding a sheaf of paper that looked the newest (by at least a hundred years, he had to guess), held together by both a straight pin and, possibly a later addition, a paperclip. He carefully lifted the sheaf, beginning to read through the carefully written words.<p>

**If you found this, **and scrawled in newer, fresher ink, again possibly a hundred years later than the paper itself: _and aren't me,_ **then you have found the box in which I kept the evidence of my shame as a colony. Well, almost the box. The original was made of paper, like the slips in here, which have only been unfolded once by myself since they were first folded, and the box has since withered away to dust. I replaced it with this one - perhaps in a hundred more years, I'll replace this one as well.** On the side, in the margin, scrawled in the same handwriting as the other later note: _It's actually in quite good condition. No one's moved it, it seems. I'll come back to check in another hundred years. _**But I won't replace the paper that these slips were written on. The day they crumble is the day my secret is locked away forever.**

**My 'adventure' here, I suppose, should start with this - an explanation of the Dare. If you're not familiar with the American Revolution, then I suggest you put this letter, and all the rest that you probably took out, back in the box and return it to its hiding spot. The point I make is this: I am _Canada._ The shadowy younger brother to America, the one who lost his voice due to a d** the first, lowercase d was scribbled out to be replaced with **_D_are.  
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Kiku hesitated a moment, glancing at the other slips of paper in the box. It wouldn't be right to read these if they were personal... and they weren't anyone's he knew. That would be doubly impolite.

**The letters themselves don't mean much to anyone who doesn't know the story behind them, and it's been a hundred years since I myself experienced it, **_two hundred now_,** so I feel it prudent to explain it all while it's still **_(somewhat)_** fresh in my mind. **_Granted, even then it wasn't quite so 'fresh'._

The little notes left later made Kiku smile without intending to. Whoever this 'Canada' was, they were very well-spoken, and perhaps had come to look back on the personal event with apathy. Perhaps he wouldn't care that someone had found the box. Perhaps he would even celebrate it being found. He leaned back against the bed, reading on, despite his hesitations.

**The room this box was hidden in, whether you're still in it or not, was once my room. Mine and America's. Back before the Revolutionary War. We slept in the same room, and sometimes crawled into bed together when one of us had a nightmare. We were twelve, physically, still children in almost everything but mentality. It took a while for our bodies to realize that our minds had grown up.**

**Precisely 31 days before the 'official' start of the American Revolutionary War, on March 20th, 1775, America proposed a Dare. I would not talk for thirty days, and anything I wanted to say would be written...**

Kiku continued reading, learning the background of this 'Dare' and growing slightly sympathetic to the plight the writer described. He paused when the letter finished its general explanation and went on into more detail.

**Now, the letters themselves. Only one of them was not meant solely for me, but it came at a later time. The first letter to myself, a Letter from the Silent, was on day 2.**

He brushed through the papers, finding one with a crude number 2 on the outside. He unfolded it only enough to read what was on it.

_Why do you let yourself be silent without a fight?_

His eyes traced the careful letters, face expressionless, and he felt a shiver run down his back. No longer hesitant, Kiku continued reading.

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><p><em><strong>Day 2 was only at the beginning of the Dare, and by then I was already questioning why I had done it. Why I had agreed. Why I didn't just break it then and there, as I now believe I should have. If only I had.<strong>_

_**Day 2 was only the beginning. A taste of what was to come, a sour, bitter, horrible taste. If I had stopped the Dare at day 2, I wouldn't be so quiet today. My confidence might have been somewhere high enough that I would speak at a normal tone of voice, and often enough to be recognized as me, and not just as "America's Lookalike" or "America's Scapegoat". If I had stopped, people might recognize me, the northern neighbor of America, as who I am: CANADA.  
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><p>It was several hours later, around dinner time, when Matthew collapsed into bed, drained from his exertions during the day, the house once more spotless. It would be filthy again by morning, but for now he could bask in some glow of accomplishment. For at least a few moments, his house was clean.<p>

A plate shattered in the kitchen. He sighed.

So much for that.

He sat up again, deciding he ought to go clean up the plate lest Kumafasa step on the broken glass and cut the pads of his paws. He could always get a glass of warm milk and honey, that might help him sleep. He wandered into the kitchen, grabbing the broom on the way there, and began sweeping the broken glass up while Kunamatata sat off to the side.

"Unknown still upset?" Kumakata asked softly, tilting his head.

Matthew shook his head, "No, no. I'm fine, Kumakichi." He swept the broken glass into the dustpan, dumping it in the trash.

A knock at the door made him look up, and he sighed. He put down the dustpan and the broom and wandered tiredly over to the front room, pulling open the door and believing it was just a solicitor or perhaps one of the girls from town, bringing him a batch of cookies as they were wont to do. They always brought home baked goods to him for his opinion - maybe because no matter how bad their food was, he would still smile and tell them they were making wonderful progress.

His surprise caught up to him about five seconds after he opened the door, and realized it wasn't, as he suspected, one of his former guesses. "Japan." he said in greeting, blinking in surprise, "Ah, hello. Did you need something?" he shook himself, "Oh, pardon, um... would you like to come in?"

"_Hai, arigatou._" Japan said, bowing his head and moving into the house when Matt stepped aside. He looked almost unsure, hesitant, as though he thought he was intruding. "Ah... Canada-san..." Matt's eyebrow raised, mostly at the fact that Kiku had remembered his name on the first guess. Something was up. Had one of his tourists caused trouble in Japan?

He led Kiku through the house to the sitting room, frowning at Kumajirou - who had jumped on the couch at the first chance he got, even though he wasn't supposed to be there - before turning to the short Japanese man, "Would you like anything to drink, or eat, or..." he realized it was actually quite close to dinner time, if a little bit past. "You could stay for dinner, if you'd like." Of course, he'd still need to make dinner, and he wouldn't know what the man would want to eat.

"If you'd like to stay for dinner," he went on, not noticing that Kiku was trying to speak up, "you can just tell me what to make and I'll do my best to make it. No guarantees that it'll be as good as if one of your people was making it, or if France was the one making it, or anything like that, but I'll do my best and..."

"C-Canada-san..." Kiku attempted softly, voice actually softer than Matt's normal toned mumble. He cleared his throat, trying to get Matt's attention, but Matt continued on his low monologue, no longer paying attention to whether Kiku was trying to speak or not

"Oh, who am I kidding, you probably don't want to stay for dinner, I'm a really boring person, so boring that no one really even realizes I'm there most of the time-" Matt cut himself off, turning his eyes to Kiku and laughing embarrassedly. He fell silent, having recognized a small voice other than his own.

For a brief moment, an awkward silence fell between them. Then Kiku cleared his throat again and bowed his head apologetically. "If this is a bad time..."

"Oh, no." Matt mumbled, perhaps a bit too quickly. He fell silent again, awkward, "Um... I'd be honored... if you'd stay for dinner."

"Ah, _hai_, I suppose I could." Japan put a small smile on his face, "I... _sumimasen_, but I believe I found something of yours, Canada-san." he bowed his head again. "I put it back, but I felt that I ought to tell you that I found them."

Matt could almost feel his heart stop as he wet his lips, "P-Pardon?"

"Your... your letters. In Igirisu-san's house."

Matt felt a low flush settle on his face. He honestly had expected Arthur, or maybe Alfred to remember about the Dare and wonder what had happened to his letters. He never expected Japan to be the one to find them first.

Kiku looked down at the couch and cleared his throat awkwardly again - he seemed to be doing that a lot today - "G-_Gomennasai_, if you didn't want anyone to find them. I will never mention them again."

"N-No, it's fine." Matt swallowed, sitting down on the couch arm weakly, "I just... well, at this point I had assumed no one would ever find them. And even if someone did, I never thought they'd tell me..." he chuckled weakly, "I'm just... trying to catch up still."

Japan nodded, "Ah... perhaps we could discuss this over dinner, then? I did wish to ask you a bit more about this..._ Dare_." he didn't miss the way Matt flinched as though the word itself was a blow. He stood, looking awkward, "I could help you cook."

There was a long moment of silence with Matthew just looking at him thoughtfully. Kiku couldn't help but look straight back, allowing the intriguingly deep violet eyes to bore into the stoic black that were his own.

Briefly, his memory flashed with something about Canada - at all the world meetings, no matter how hectic or boring it got, his eyes would always be locked on the current speaker, considering, studying, appraising, learning.

"Would you want to?" Matthew finally asked softly, standing up again as well. He moved toward the kitchen, not waiting for an answer. And Japan smiled.

Canada certainly knew how to read people and guess what they would answer - or at least pretend he wasn't bothered by whatever answer they would choose.

His smile fell. Then again, perhaps he had just gotten used to disappointment and actually _couldn't_ think of another person answering positively... after all his study of everyone, he could have either gotten very good at reading people, or he could have learned all the wrong things.

He followed the tall but quiet nation into the kitchen, standing beside him at the counter as Matthew pulled out his impressive set of cookware. He opened the fridge wide and gestured to it, conveying that Kiku could look freely and choose as he liked. He did the same with the pantry and each and every cupboard. Flattered, Kiku walked about the kitchen, studying the many forms of food that Matthew had stocked it with.

"There are other things in the basement too, provisions for when I get hit with snowstorms up here in the winter. Some of the worst ones leave me stranded for a week." Matt said, almost conversationally if it weren't for his soft voice. Kiku made an interested noise as he pulled a package of rice from the pantry, blinking at the brand name. It wasn't in English. In fact, he couldn't recognize _what_ language it was in.

"You buy foreign foods?" he asked his current host softly. Matthew looked over and smiled, nodding.

"Bulgarian." he pointed to the rice, "Francis told me once that they made some of the best rice he had ever tasted. That's the gourmet rice I keep for special occasions. I have some Chinese rice and Japanese rice too, stored back there somewhere." Kiku peered back into the spacious pantry, looking at all the chock-full shelves. And he had thought France was a culinary connoisseur. Canada seemed to have taken that interest in gourmet foods worldwide.

He commented on this, and the blond blushed and laughed in embarrassment before modestly explaining, "I have many cultures of people often sharing their favorite foods with me in this town. Being more multicultural than most countries, I grew a bit more interested." he pulled out vegetable oil and canola oil and peanut oil, and a curious bottle that he explained as melted margarine with a bit of honey and vanilla in it which he used when baking to give the cakes or brownies an extra sweet taste to them. Kiku was fascinated.

When they had gathered many separate ingredients and kitchenware was littered over the wide counter tops, Kiku glanced at Matthew, who smiled and gestured to everything, "You'll likely know what to do better than me. I'll take my cue from you." and he bowed his head, a perfect gesture of respect, and Kiku couldn't help but smile again slightly.

They cooked quietly, each taking tentative cues from the other, and Matthew only speaking every once in a while to explain the use of some of the kitchen ware or how he would typically use an ingredient in cooking. Before long, the enjoyable experience came to an end and they sat down at the table, an impressive spread of food before them. Kiku smiled when, instead of merely picking up his fork, Matthew placed his hands together and glanced up at him, as if asking if he was doing it right. Kiku replicated the gesture, causing Matt to shift his hands only slightly to perfect it, and together without a cue they both said in their soft voices:

"_Itadakimasu._"

* * *

><p>There were a few moments where they merely sat and ate and enjoyed the food. Matthew looked down at his plate and generally seemed to avoid eye contact - when he wasn't actively looking at you, Kiku noticed, his eyes just seemed to always drift away - and Kiku looked around the more small but still cozy room. The clock on the mantelpiece struck eight before the conversation truly picked up.<p>

Kiku kept meaning to bring the conversation back to the Dare, but the tentative topics Matthew had suggested at first still held his attention. The plates before them had been cleared, picked clean by the two and by Matthew occasionally slipping a bit of fish or meat down to his curious bear. They had bowls of rice before them now, which Kiku had told him were generally kept for 'dessert', and Matthew had nodded and said softly that he could see the logic in that. Carbs after everything else - so that was how the Asian nations stayed so thin.

It was said in jest, and Kiku laughed. Darkness fell before Matthew set two cups of tea and a teapot between them, and the conversation lulled again. Kiku was about to bring up the Dare when he caught sight of the small, happy smile on Matthew's face. And he smiled as well, and let the subject drop.

Matthew had told him everything he could have wanted to know about the Dare that evening, and how it affected him now, all without saying a single word on the actual subject.

Canada was indeed a very interesting person, he thought to himself, as he drank the deliciously brewed green tea.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: <strong>_**So this might just become a regular fic, instead of a oneshot with a shit-ton of omakes. My muse picks strange times to decide to work with me. It actually decided to be productive, at 10 o'clock at night the night I started writing this. I got through half of it by midnight, and had already planned the next five or so 'chapters'. **

**Of course, then I had to go to an internet-less house for a week and let my muse simmer and be ignored. Gotta love my summer job.  
><strong>

**If you request a Canada couple that is not already on my list, then I will add it to my list and/or make a real 'omake' to the 'fic' this is turning into. Because there is a LOGIC to my list of characters who will get to see Mattie's Letters from the Silent. It actually follows a plot (GASP).  
><strong>


	3. England, The Second Letter

**A/N: **Fair warning - this chapter, though it revolves around Iggy, he does NOT find the letters. I know, spoiler alert. But just so you guys aren't like "OMG Y HE NOT FIND?"**, that IS PART OF WHAT I HAVE PLANNED. **He gets another chapter later where he **DOES** find the letters. But Confuzzled!Iggy is too cute, and this way I get both Confuzzled!Iggy **AND** Guilty!Iggy.

And my waifu gets a cameo this way too.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Family. FLUFF.

**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, England/Arthur Kirkland

**Pairing: **Pseudo England/Canada fluff

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Word Count: **4,504 

* * *

><p><strong>Omake 2: England <strong>

"THE SECOND LETTER"

* * *

><p>Contrary to popular belief, England <em>could<em> cook. When it was for himself. He just couldn't cook for anyone else, and even the things he cooked himself were not... well, French. In fact, even the things he cooked himself would have disappointed even the cooks at one of those _deplorable_ hovels that America called _McDonalds **restaurant**_. But the food was edible enough, and healthier than the food in one of those damned places, and he could eat it just fine without worrying about whether or not the steak had just a _little_ bit of gristle left over that he hadn't quite gotten, or whether the biscuits were just the _tiniest_ bit overdone and charred.

So what if no one had wanted him to bring anything to the Christmas potluck for the last decade or so? He could make _damn _good fish and chips.

Arthur sighed as he pushed up from his lounge chair in the living room of his big, posh, very English house. He supposed eventually he would have to make _food_, wouldn't he. At the moment, however, it was tea time, about three o'clock, and he could do for brewing a good cuppa. He had just gotten back from visiting all his colonies - at least, he thought he visited them all, there were quite a few, and he got the major ones, he knew. America and Hong Kong and India - though, India hadn't been much of a colonization and had been more of a 'I rule you now, so you'd best learn how to brew some damn good tea'.

He walked into the kitchen, as though to start cooking something, and paused in the doorway. Something seemed wrong, though he couldn't place his finger on it. The stove was still off from when he left the kitchen after cleaning up breakfast, the fridge was still closed just the way it was supposed to be, the spice cabinets were in their usual disarray (he never could find time to organize them, perhaps if he did he would be more willing to use the spices in his food), so it wasn't as though the 'wrong' feeling was easily identifiable. He glanced around again - the table and chairs were carefully and very neatly arranged in the middle of the room, exactly as they always had been; the counters were clean, so it couldn't have been them; the sink was empty, he had done the dishes from breakfast and lunch and put them in the dishwasher... what was it?

He walked into the kitchen to examine everything a bit more closely, walking toward the area of the kitchen where the feeling was strongest. It felt almost as though he had forgotten something, something important... today was Monday, what always happened on Mondays? He knew there was something he had always done on Mondays, something that nowadays he always reminisced on. On Mondays.

He stopped near the stove, next to which sat the knife rack, and frowned. He knew that he had allowed Alfred to attempt to cook for himself on Saturdays back when he was a colony, he would always cook Sunday brunch, and Monday... he knew he let one of the colonies cook on Monday, and it was one of those good times when the food was not only edible, but enjoyable. Alfred's old 'concoctions' would leave the kitchen a mess, and... wouldn't he help clean up? Arthur thought he helped clean up.

The phone rang as his eyes landed on the knife rack and a deep sense of worry and déjà vu burst through his system. He sighed, feeling as though he was being interrupted seconds before understanding what he had felt, and walked out of the kitchen to go grab the phone in the hallway. "What is it?" he demanded in annoyance into the phone.

"_Iggy! Iggy, you won't believe this-_" Oh blast, it was America.

"If it has anything to do with your music, your pop culture, or my eyebrows, _I don't want to hear it._"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. "_Dude, it has... nothing to do with... any of that._" America's voice had that peculiar twang and hesitation to it that he had always used when he was confused or wondering where the hell something came from... or when facing a map. Arthur raised one of his (admittedly impressive) eyebrows, waiting for America to tell him what the devil it was then.

"_I went to go visit Mattie, you know, to give him the invitation for my birthday since it's coming up in about a week-_" Oh, damnit, that was right, it was the end of June. "_And I kinda stayed to chat with him, stole some of his freaking amazing brownies and maple cookies - they're like a sugar rush so strong you get high, I swear - and he mentioned that Japan, _Japan_, had visited him recently! I didn't even know Japan knew Mattie existed!_"

Arthur frowned slightly to himself, trying to place the name 'Mattie' to a recognizable face. The only thing he could really place was that it was male (though with Alfred's voice it almost sounded as though he was saying "Maddie") because Alfred had mentioned that 'Mattie' was a 'he'. He vaguely remembered a small, shy boy, with some beast of a bear that he carried around like a teddy, who was polite and quiet - very much the opposite of Alfred. The boy had lived with him once, if he remembered correctly. What was his country again?

"_You're having issues remembering him, aren't you, Iggy?_" Alfred sighed condescendingly, "_Really. He lived with us for like, eleven years. And he stayed with you after I left for like... ninety or so years after that. He was with you for a little over a century!_" Arthur's brows furrowed dangerously and his mouth curled into a scowl. He didn't appreciate how Alfred was speaking, as though _he,_ England, was the child in their relative relationship. "_Lemme help you. War of 1812, I invaded him and you went to help, then he totally grew a pair and fucking burned down my White House? Matthew? Canada? _Any_ of this ringing a bell?_"

At the name "Canada" mixed with the name "Matthew", England's memories cleared up. He could see in his mind's eye a near replica of America, with slightly longer and curlier hair, and a peculiar curl. The white beast was still in the young man's arms, and a small smile glowed beneath blue-violet eyes. Arthur let out a small noise of understanding, and Alfred let out a condescending chuckle. "_But like, anyway, I had no idea Japan knew Mattie existed at all. I went to go talk to Matt - after you left, old man, you know - and he seemed to be in a better mood than normal. He was all cheery and actually willing to share his 'special' brownies. Do you even know what's in those? They're made of awesome._"

Arthur sighed, having some idea what was in these 'special' brownies. Netherlands had been happier lately, which usually meant that he had shared his 'store' with someone. Matthew had, if he was correct, been on close terms with Lars. Though, he didn't like the thought that Matthew was regularly using marijuana. He was pulled out of his musing by Alfred talking again, though he only tuned in for one sentence.

"_...of course I'm sure you knew all this already, didn't you go visit Mattie after you visited me?_"

There was a brief moment of silence, before Arthur put the phone back on the hook with a soft click.

* * *

><p><em>Click.<em>

Alfred sighed. Arthur could be such an oblivious jerk.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Day 4 was about the time when my annoyance with myself over the Dare started to transfer to annoyance with the people around me. I couldn't help but feel like, if I could just make them listen, then I wouldn't be ignored. I hadn't gotten any letters back from Francis yet, and Alfred barely read my letters before tearing them up to make them paper mache. Arthur hadn't even looked at me for four days.<strong>_

_**I felt so alone.**_

* * *

><p>Matthew was having a wonderful lazy day, not caring that his house was a mess for once, with a big bowl of cereal and ice cream and his special brownie chunks in his hands as he lounged back on the couch in his boxers. Kumajirou had his head resting on Matthew's left leg, and was half asleep in the usual way he would get when he managed to steal (or beg off him, as had happened) some of his brownies. He rarely ever let the bear get high, because it might be bad for him, but he was in a good mood today and hadn't quite minded the bear's pestering of him.<p>

But as previously said, he was lounging about on the couch in his boxers with a big bowl of ice cream and cereal and brownie chunks. And he was watching Rachael Ray.

(And he did _not_ have a crush on her, _Alfred_.)

His house was in its usual half-clean, half-dirty state. Kumajirou had stolen a bag of instant ramen from the pantry (there were times when Alfred demanded the noodles, so Matthew kept himself stocked despite not liking them himself) and had ripped it open after breaking the noodles into tiny pieces. There were tiny uncooked ramen noodles littering his carpet, and he had also spilled a tiny bit of milk on the way out with his bowl of snackage.

And for once, in the way he got every couple of months, Matthew didn't care about the mess. All he cared about was his day of relaxation. The fact that his day of relaxation also happened to have a Rachael Ray marathon on TV was complete coincidence.

Really.

He sighed happily as he took another bite of his wonderful concoction, tasting the mix of chocolate brownies, caramel vanilla ice cream, and Apple Jacks, and scratched his zoned out bear behind the ears. Kumajirou growled happily and, in a far off voice, said, "Unknown makes best brownies _ever_."

Matthew, for once, was willing to let the 'Unknown' bit slide, and just revelled in the compliment. Rachael was putting a delicious looking frittata into the oven, saying something about how long to cook it, and his house still smelled vaguely of the eggs and bacon he had made that morning (he didn't eat pancakes _every_ day).

"Kumaroo, I can't feel my leg." he muttered contentedly as he pushed Kumajirou's ten pound head off his thigh. The bear moved it right back. He sighed, in half-accomplished irritation - he never could get truly irritated with his bear, even less so after a few brownies - and wriggled out from under the white head again.

"Unknown, give back pillow~" Kumajirou complained, head flat against the couch.

Matthew instead settled into the new portion of couch, returning his gaze to watching Rachael try her pre-made frittata with an over-exuberant exclaimation of happiness at the taste.

He was fully prepared to do this all day, only getting up to get a refill on his food, when there was a knock at his door. For the first few seconds, he didn't register the noise as anything he had to worry about. Then the knock came again.

Anyone in his little town usually only knocked once, so he knew that it couldn't be any of them. He doubted Alfred could be back already, unless the American had found out there was a Rachael Ray marathon on TV and wanted to tease him about it. He sighed - that was probably it, Alfred wanted to tease him. He pushed up from the couch shakily, putting down his snack bowl, and wandered toward the couch to go open the door.

It wasn't Alfred.

For a few seconds, there was merely an awkward silence as Matt registered that it was _Arthur_ at his door, that Arthur had gone a strange shade of puce, and that Arthur was looking him over incredulously.

Then it clicked. Matthew went a bright red and his eyes went wide, and he stammered weakly out the door, "O-O-Oh _Dieu_, A-A-Arthur! I'm s-so sorry!" and then he slammed the door in Arthur's face.

* * *

><p>Arthur would have been angry, had he not been morbidly amused.<p>

He had always taken pride in the fact that Matthew was well put together and well behaved as a colony (you know... when he remembered). He couldn't recall a day when the boy wasn't primped and polished by the time Arthur had managed to get Alfred out of _bed_. Matthew had never needed prompting as an English colony, he simply woke up and got dressed, ready for the day within twenty minutes of leaving bed, his bed by that point already neatly made.

Seeing the boy - well, young man, now - as he was just a moment ago, clad only in boxers and with a spot of ice cream dribbling down his chin, Arthur couldn't help the urge to chuckle at the irony. He didn't know what he had expected when he got to Canada; whether it was Matthew warmly welcoming him in, in casual wear but still presentable, with that beast of a bear down at his feet looking up at him with those soulless black eyes... He shook his head. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't Matthew (a more toned Matthew than the slightly pudgy but active boy he remembered) in maple leaf boxers.

Well, he couldn't exactly say the maple leaf boxers were a surprise. It was more the fact that they were visible.

He stood outside for a few moments, able to hear frantic French from inside and a few tumble sounds and, if he wasn't mistaken, the crash of something glass. He knocked on the door again, unable to keep the amusement from his voice, "Matthew? Are you alright in there?"

There were a few seconds of silence before the door opened again and Matthew (wearing a hoodie and jeans now, Arthur saw) poked his head out, looking embarrassed.

"U-Um. Hi, Arthur." He forced a cheery tone to his voice, though Arthur could tell he still felt mortified from being seen the way he had. "D-Did you need something?"

"I just thought I'd drop by..." Arthur said, blinking. "May I come in?"

"N-No!" Matthew yelped, before going a bit more red, "I-I mean, my house... I didn't have time to prepare..."

"Obviously." Arthur said dryly, mouth curling into a small smile. "Then, perhaps, join me for a walk?"

Matthew blinked in a blank manner, and Arthur sighed, "Show me around town? I was hoping to spend a few hours or so with you, silly boy. For old times' sake."

Matt bit his lip before nodding, glancing back inside at something thoughtfully, "Um... Kunamatata is..." _high, twice as heavy when he's slumped as such and probably too heavy for me to carry him_, "sleeping." he finished, "I don't think I can wake him."

"Unknowwwwwnnnn!"

Arthur chuckled, choosing to ignore the obvious voice of the bear and Matthew's also noticeable wince. "Then you should let him sleep," he said instead, tugging on a strand of Matthew's hair almost affectionately. "Come now, he'll be fine on his own for a while."

Matthew hesitated a moment before nodding slightly, "Um... give me a moment." he said softly, closing the door again. Arthur could hear the tell-tale beeping of the buttons on Matthew's cell phone and the _whump_ of him leaning back against the door, as well as a rambled off conversation in Quebequois. He didn't understand much, but assumed he was asking one of his people to come over and watch his bear (and perhaps clean his house).

Matthew opened the door again, slipping out as he pushed his phone back in his pocket, and shut the door behind him, putting his spare key under the plant to the left of the door. So Arthur was right, someone was coming over.

(He didn't know that Matthew had also set the rest of the Rachael Ray marathon to record while he was gone.)

* * *

><p>The walk was awkward, both had to admit. Neither was quite sure what to talk about, as they hadn't talked normally for an extended period of time in such a long time. Arthur had fallen into an unsure silence as they walked their way back out of the woods Matthew had chosen to live in, and Matthew was fretting with a loose thread on his sweatshirt. They saw a girl, about nineteen, walking past them toward Matthew's house - she turned her head and met Matthew's gaze with a smile and a thumbs up, which only made him more awkward.<p>

It didn't help that that particular girl was bi, and in a relationship with another girl, who also happened to be rooming with her at her house.

A stilted conversation was started as they got to town, Matthew pointing out some of the things, shops and such, and Arthur responding with unsure, admittedly 'lame' answers. He wasn't good at being social unless it was to bark a scathing remark, and Matthew... no comment.

About fifteen minutes into the walk, Arthur was done pretending he wasn't bothered by the hesitant conversation Matthew was providing. "We never did talk easily, did we?" he asked rhetorically, sighing in aggravation. "At first because you hated my guts and wouldn't speak in English, despite knowing perfectly well how to, and after that because you were always so quiet."

"It didn't help that you always thought I was Alfred." Matthew muttered bitterly, kicking a loose stone along the sidewalk.

Neither of them had missed how Arthur had consistently blamed Matthew in his earlier remark. There were another few seconds of terse silence, Arthur unsure as to how to fix his mess up. He sighted a coffee shop and grabbed Matthew by the elbow, tugging him toward it.

He rather hoped the lad liked Tim Hortons, because it was the first coffee shop he saw, and if Matthew didn't like it then Arthur was making the situation even worse.

But he felt the way Matthew seemed to relax as soon as he entered the shop, and he turned to glance at the boy. There was a genuine smile on his face, and Arthur internally grinned to himself. Unsociable Brit - 1, Sadistic Karma - 0.

Matthew began tugging him up to the counter, seeming to actually want to get the coffee and hoping that it would blow away some of the awkwardness of this outing. Arthur busied himself looking at the possible choices, while Matthew began happily examining the pastries on sale.

Neither of them looked up as a burly man stood and started sauntering over to them, looking like a tiger that had just sighted dinner. When Arthur noticed the man, however, shortly after he ordered his hot coffee with two lumps of sugar, his instincts told him that it was not a happy go lucky greeting the man wanted to offer.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Mr. Antisocial. Out with your _boyfriend_?"

(Arthur surruptitiously untied his shoelaces with his feet.)

Matthew looked up, caught sight of the man, and sighed. "Hello." he acknowledged, before looking away from him, not answering his question either way though Arthur could tell he was bothered. He instead looked up at the barista, smiling kindly and telling her his order. He also ordered a couple of pastries, which made Arthur raise an eyebrow.

"Hey," the burly man scowled, "I asked you a question. You should answer the questions given to you by your betters."

"When one of my betters asks me a question, then, I'll answer it." Matthew said softly as he accepted the pastries and the coffee from the barista. Arthur held in a smirk as the man puffed up, before taking his coffee as well and pulling out his wallet. He had had some of his pounds changed to Canadian dollars at the airport, and the way Matthew was reaching for his pocket indicated the boy thought he would be paying. "Matthew, I have money."

"You're a guest here, Arthur, let me pay."

"No, I don't think I will."

The man, by this time growing a dark shade of annoyed at being ignored, scowled, "Can't even stand up for yourself against your boyfriend, huh?"

Matthew shrugged and started walking past the man toward a table. Arthur could see the moment the man snapped, half a second before his hand snapped out and grabbed Matthew's collar. A thin line along Matthew's neck gleamed in the light for a brief second, then was gone.

Arthur took a calculated step forward, catching his shoelaces intentionally, and aimed.

There was dark silence in the coffee shop for a few seconds after he hit the ground, hiding his smirk. The man was covered in his previously ordered coffee, and looked about ready to explode at him.

"Sorry." he said with barely contained glee, not sorry in the least, "Tripped..."

The man was about to say something else, but Arthur cut him off with the rest of his insult.

"...most likely over your large, blistering, pulsing _ego_, but I didn't see, it could have just been my shoelaces."

The hand around Matthew's collar let him go, and he dropped a couple of inches (the man had been holding him up above the floor), looking a bit shocked and worried as the man curled his hand into a fist and stepped menacingly toward Arthur. Arthur didn't even flinch when the other hand grabbed his shoulder to hold him steady.

"It was his shoelaces!" the barista snapped, reaching over the counter and holding the man's fist away from Arthur, "And I will not tolerate violence here. I will call the police!"

"He spilled his coffee all over me!" the man roared.

"He tripped." the barista said sharply back, "Now, I suggest you leave, sir."

Arthur couldn't contain his grin as the man reluctantly let him go, and turned toward the door. Going to help Matthew up and straightening him off, he took the pastries from him and moved toward a table. He sat the boy down there and went to go re-order his coffee.

It was worth $4.79 for the small but radiant smile on Matthew's face.

* * *

><p>They returned to Matthew's house after their stint in the coffee shop, having spent their walk back in comfortable silence. As they walked up to the door, Matthew stopped.<p>

"Thank you." he said softly, looking down at Arthur (he had to be at least a head taller than him, Arthur noted, if not for his slouch) and smiling again. "You didn't have to do that - I deal with his kind regularly. I'm used to it."

"Do you have a lot of people like that?" Arthur asked worriedly. Matthew shrugged.

"You take the good with the bad."

There was another brief silence as Matthew fished out his keys, before Arthur cleared his throat, "Matthew... er... _are_ you...?"

"Gay?" Matt finished his sentence, chuckling, "I don't think gender really matters, Arthur."

Arthur noted the line over his neck again while Matthew opened the door.

"Care to come in and join me for tea?" Matthew asked, looking up at Arthur thankfully. Arthur shook his head, pulling his cardigan down and straightening it again, "I ought to be going back to England, I left rather suddenly, David is probably having a coronary."

Matthew chuckled, imagining the British Prime Minister David Cameron having a coronary. "Alright. But do come back to visit soon, okay?" he asked hopefully.

"I will, but I heard you've been having plenty of visitors." Arthur chuckled, "Japan came over recently, hm?"

"Oh, he found something of mine in the old house" and by old house, Arthur knew he was referring to Arthur's own, "and dropped by to let me know about it." Matthew shrugged, before chuckling, "I'll see you around, Arthur."

Arthur smiled and held his arms out to hug Matthew, chuckling affectionately when Matthew didn't hesitate and hugged him tightly.

"Behave well. And try not to answer the door in your knickers." he muttered into Matthew's ear, before pulling away and turning to leave, well aware of the way Matthew's face tinted red in mortification.

* * *

><p>"Unknown seems happy. Not thinking about past?" Kumajirou asked as Matthew closed the door behind him. Matthew was thankful that the bear seemed to have gotten over his high, and bent down to rub between the white ears.<p>

"Good to see you too, Kumaroo."

* * *

><p>Arthur closed his door behind him, sighing and going into the kitchen. He had missed tea time, and it was about time he got himself something for dinner. He strolled into the kitchen and over to his knife rack, before freezing.<p>

(Matthew had a line across his neck. A scar.)

He looked at the knives and shakily let out a breath.

(Every Monday. Every Monday for years he had cleaned the knives he couldn't bear to use.)

He raised his hand and directed it to the knife rack, hesitating before pulling out the long, serrated knife.

He was such a fool.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: <strong>_**Oh Iggy. I love you with Matt, you're so cute. And these things keep getting longer. No guarantees on if that'll keep happening - each chapter is only as long as I need it to be to get the scenes I want in it.**


	4. America, The Third Letter

**A/N: **This is becoming UK/Can without my permission. But I can't say I don't love the pairing, so, you'll all have to deal with some background UKCan stuff haha. For some reason, this chapter was harder to write than I thought it would be. PS: I put myself in briefly. No major role in the story for me though. I'll just be one of the background people who Matt hangs out with for a scene, then is maybe only mentioned once or twice in the future. Like that asshole in the last chapter. Oh, he's coming back. He's coming back REAL hard.

And also, another headcannon of mine that I came across, an old one. Matt is Passive/Aggressive, but not in the usual way. He is mildly schizo with his Passive/Aggressive-ness.

Due to magic by Arthur, his aggressive side was separated from his passive side. So while most of the time he's passive, there are occasions when the aggressive side takes over and sweet, kind, timid little Mattie becomes SCARY.

The premise would be: "There's a serial miller in Toronto..." and you can all probably imagine the rest.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Family. FLUFF.

**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, America/Alfred F. Jones, England/UK/Britain/allhisfuckingnames/Arthur Kirkland

**Pairing: **America/Canada fluff, UK/Canada forming in the background.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Word Count: **4,464 (WHY DO THESE KEEP GETTING LONGER OMG)**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Omake 3: America<strong>

"THE THIRD LETTER"

* * *

><p>Sometimes it amazed Alfred just how predictable life could be. His alarm clock went off at seven o'clock, and some days he would wake up at that time, and sometimes he would sleep in until eleven thirty, and even then just lounge around in bed until noon. Sometimes he was easily awake when he first got up, and sometimes it took upwards to three cups of coffee to get him going. But still, life was very much the same, day to day.<p>

Sure, there were times when Maria popped over the border to attack him and hold him captive for a while, but he had even gotten used to one of those (Enough so that the FBI now had a "Maria Alert" to know that the female half of Mexico had stolen him again).

Life carried on, he would eat breakfast (whether it was at seven-thirty in the morning or at one in the afternoon) and he would go into his office and take care of whatever documents had been sent his way, looking them over and proposing edits and improvements. He would usually finish around four, or five, depending on how many documents there were, and then he would vegetate for a couple of hours playing video games or watching movies. He'd order take out most nights, have leftovers the most of the rest, and every once in a blue moon he would actually cook for himself. Then he'd go check his mail again in case something important had been sent, chat on the web with random strangers via Omegle until about eleven at night, then he'd go to bed. And the cycle would begin again.

Overall, despite little things, he was very much living a simple life. He had chosen to live in a two story house out in Glendale for a while, a few years away from Washington D.C. and all the airheads there who thought they were more important than he was. He was driving a dented old Volkswagon, and still got a laugh whenever he heard a teenager call out "Blue!" when he passed, and punch their friend.

His next door neighbors were a family, middle aged parents and a teenaged daughter who smiled at him those mornings when he went out to get the newspaper, and she went out to get the mail. Sometimes they chatted under the tree on her house's lawn, and sometimes they just nodded and went about their days. They had a dog, who would sometimes sneak out of the house when the door was open to go attack him with love. He enjoyed tousling with the dog, and the girl was interesting to talk to as well. She had some interesting ideas.

All in all, he rather enjoyed his simple, predictable life. But today, he felt the want to mix things up a little. It was June twenty-ninth and he had nothing to do. He had talked to the neighbor girl for a few moments, while she was out raking leaves, but the most insight she could give him was that he needed a vacation, and if she were to ever go anywhere fun, she'd want to go to Ireland. It made Alfred think - maybe he could visit Arthur, he hadn't done that in a long time.

So now, he was flying halfway around the world to go bother - er, _visit_ - Arthur. And why? Because he was bored.

Somewhere on the fourth wall, a score counter appeared. Unsociable Brit - 1, Sadistic Karma - 1.

* * *

><p>Arthur had settled into his study in his big, posh, very English house, and had put a cassette in the player (because he still listened to cassettes, they weren't <em>that<em> ancient!) to listen to while he worked. He had finished most of the paperwork and had now settled back into his chair to do embroidery, trying to keep his mind from wandering back again and again to the knives in the kitchen. His hands had slipped a couple of times and he had pricked himself, blood dribbling from little wounds in his fingers. He finally sighed and gave up on his embroidery, leaning back into his chair with an annoyed glance upward at the ceiling.

He'd have to berate Matthew later, for making him so conflicted. Because it was very obviously _the boy's fault._

After finding the knives and realizing just what a fool he had been for almost two and a half centuries, Arthur had been having trouble sleeping, and had been unable to cook for himself - he couldn't even stand to be in the kitchen where those knives sat. A part of him wanted to throw the knives away, get rid of them, never have to deal with the memories again - but another part, a smaller part, insisted that he couldn't just block it away because it was hard to deal with.

He leaned back in the chair with a sigh, closing his eyes in thought. Matthew had always been such a well behaved boy. Introverted, yes, but he could interact fine with Alfred, and with the bloody _Frog_... Arthur briefly wondered why the young blond nation had always seemed to hesitate when talking to _him_.

Mentally, he compiled a list of things he knew for a fact about Matthew, things that Matthew had told him about himself personally. It wasn't a very long list.

Matthew loved pancakes and maple syrup, but it had to be hand made or a specific brand of maple syrup.

Matthew enjoyed Tim Horton's coffee, or 'Timmies' as he called it.

Matthew would throw himself in front of a bullet for his bear, since the bear was the first friend he ever had.

(The bear had looked up and asked who Matthew was after he mentioned that. The irony was just sad.)

Matthew didn't care about the gender of the person he was attracted to.

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose - and suddenly he hoped that Matthew didn't care if it was a familial relation he was attracted to. He shoved the thought from his mind, flustered, and tried to tell himself it was just a strange thought from the stress.

To make matters worse, that was the moment the door slammed open downstairs.

"Yo, Iggster! You home?"

Arthur muttered a curse, pushing up out of his chair and striding over to his study door. He carefully clicked all seven locks in place, muttering under his breath, "Oh great and almighty Powers that Be, wherever you Be, who enjoy causing me misfortune at the moment... _knock it the bloody hell off_!"

* * *

><p>Matthew stretched idly as he looked around the hockey rink, which was almost completely deserted if not for a few of the kid's classes on the other end. He had an entire half of the ice open to mess with, and had rented a puck, having brought his trusty hockey stick and skates. Kumajirou was in Cindi's care (Cindi being ththe girl who had cleaned his house so generously when he asked), so he didn't have to worry about the bear for another few hours. He could unwind and send a six ounce disk of rubber into a net at about 88 miles an hour (roughly, and he wasn't even trying to slapshot it).<p>

He skated backwards a moment, not wearing all his usual bulky gear for hockey and instead hanging around in sweats and a T-shirt. Another person stepped onto the ice, but instead of staying with the children's class (as he had assumed he or she would), the person skated idly over to his side of the ice. He vaguely recognized her as the more quiet girl who was rooming with Cindi. She smiled timidly and skated to about five feet away, before speaking, "You mind if I skate around a bit?"

"Not at all." he smiled. He rather enjoyed spending time with his people, just not too much to get too close to any one of them. This girl _was_ a different case - she hadn't been born Canadian, but had instead 'ran away' there when she was seventeen to live with Cindi - but she had a job and everything, and was working on her Canadian citizenship, so he still considered her one of his own.

"I'll try to stay out of your way." she said softly, beginning to skate idle circles, attempting to skate backwards a moment and promptly falling down.

He chuckled, and skated over to help her up.

"How do you skate backwards?" she asked in vague annoyance, "I keep trying to but no one will tell me how."

Matt chuckled, skating backwards slowly while she watched what his feet were doing. "Like this."

She turned around and tried to skate backwards toward him. He caught her easily when she fell again. "Ugggghhh." she groaned, "This is too damn hard!"

"I can help you, if you want." he smiled softly at her, noting the way she blinked, then looked away suddenly.

"I'm not going to force you or anything. If you're doing it because you feel sorry for me then you might as well not do it at all."

"I won't do it unless you ask me to." Matt replied seriously, and she smiled a little bit.

"Then could you teach me?"

"I'd be happy to." Matt smiled back. "I'm Matthew."

"I'm Kristina. Nice to meet you. Now, how do I _not_ fall on my ass?"

* * *

><p>Alfred hummed thoughtfully with a frown. Arthur didn't seem to be anywhere in the house that he could get to (he would bet Hawaii that Arthur was in his study with the door locked, though). He sighed and idly wandered the house, realizing it had been ages since he had been here. He glanced into various rooms - there was the kitchen, just like he remembered, and there was the big living room with the fireplace he and Matt used to have as a central part of their playing Hide and Seek when they were younger (No matter whose turn it was, the other would hide in the fireplace. They both had fun pretending to look other places while knowing exactly where the other was).<p>

He chuckled to himself as he remembered that. Matt had always sneezed cutely when some of the ashes got up his nose, 'revealing' where he was when it was Alfred's turn**.**

(He wasn't aware that Matt never got a house with a fireplace anymore, because the ash would make him sneeze even when he wasn't in the same room with it.)

Alfred continued walking down the hallway, past the closet where he and Matt had once accidentally locked themselves and had been stuck for hours before Arthur found them. Matt had clung to his side the entire time they were stuck in the dark.

He stopped outside another familiar room, smiling fondly. Their old bedroom. "Wow... this brings back memories." he muttered softly, stepping into the room and looking around it. It looked almost exactly the same as it had been before.

"I wonder if that loose floorboard is still under Mattie's bed where he used to hide candy from Arthur?" he mused to himself, dropping to his knees beside the bed that had once been Matthew's. He peered under the bed, vaguely remembering back when his brother had refused to speak any English and had found the floorboard. It had been one of the few times Matthew had broken his French tirade, which he had only done for Alfred on a few occasions.

He jiggled the floorboard, finding that it was still loose, and chuckled as he lifted it out of place. It had used to take two hands, one from each of them working together, to lift the floorboard. Now he could do it with one hand.

A small cardboard box caught his eye in the space beneath, and he blinked. Matt had stopped using the floorboard, he thought. It was too troublesome for storing candy down there, too hard to get at. So why was there a box there?

He quickly pulled it out, setting the floorboard back down and opening the box.

What he found there would change the way he viewed his brother entirely.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Day six, the anger returned to myself. The fact was, I <strong>_**couldn't_ make them listen. I didn't have the strength of will, nor the courage enough to. Alfred was always the center of attention and I always faded into the background, always there but never acknowledged. That was how it was. Why did I want anything more?_**

**_Sometimes, now, I pretend I'm a hundred years younger again and pretend I had the power to change what I did back then. Maybe that means I'm getting over the depression of the Dare. But I think it just means I'm still connected, tied back, unable to move on, by one string of Fate that changed my life in a single month. The Dare wasn't just an elongated silence contest. It was the irrevocable event that locked away my voice, along with my courage and sense of self._**

* * *

><p>July the first dawned late for Matthew Williams, as it did every year, as he made no attempt to get up out of bed before noon. When it was about one in the afternoon, he finally dragged himself from the nice warm covers and shuffled around the house in his underwear. He finally decided to get dressed after a brief shower at one-thirty, and walked around to see what kind of mischief Kumajirou had gotten into while he was still stubbornly sleeping.<p>

There was a surprising lack of carnage, he noted as he wandered through the house. He found the bear on the sofa (he sighed but didn't tell the bear to get off as he usually would, finding that he didn't really want to bother), watching the screen with an attentiveness Matthew had to wonder at. When he realized his pet was watching the fishing channel, he had to roll his eyes.

"Have you been sitting there all morning?"

"Didn't mess up the house." Kumajirou said back, eyes not leaving the screen. "Present for Unknown. Today is Unknown Day, isn't it?"

Matthew blinked, before smiling thankfully and plopping onto the couch next to Kumajirou, "Thanks, Kumaroo." He scratched behind the bear's ears, earning a content growl of happiness in return. For a while, they just sat like that and watched the fishermen on the television catching big fish. At about 2:30, he realized Kumajirou was salivating all over his paws, trying to keep it off the couch and carpet. He chuckled.

"Hungry? Let's go get you some fish, hm?"

He had placed the bowl of fish for Kuma down and changed the TV over to his recorded Rachael Ray marathon when there was a loud knock at the door, sounding almost unsure. He sighed and walked over to the door for the fourth time that week. It opened before he twisted the knob, smacking him in the forehead and admitting Alfred, who looked around with a grin on his face before noticing that Matt had a bruise on his forehead now.

The grin fell and was replaced by a look of guilt that made Matthew blink. It had just been an accident, but Alfred looked... off.

"Oh god, sorry Mattie!" Alfred fussed over his head like a mother hen for about ten seconds, then pushed inside further. "Anyway, we need just a day of brother time, kay? I brought snacks, and video games, and movies, and even a couple of books, since I know you love reading."

Matthew was shocked - Alfred had come over with all the things necessary for, dare he say it, a _party_ - and he was brushing it all off as though it was just another day. He didn't even realize that it was Canada day.

He always recognized Canada day. Something was up.

Alfred was one of the few people who always remembered that Matthew had a birthday right near his own. Usually, he just called (sometimes on July the second - which was rare - when he forgot on the first), and let Matthew know he had remembered. On really extravagant years Matthew would receive a gift of fireworks from the border towns that stretched from the first to the fourth, fireworks every night in a show that was Alfred's calling card way of connecting the dots. But Alfred had never really gone the middle ground and done a _party _for him, on or off his birthday.

Something was _very_ up.

Alfred seemed... subdued, somehow. His usual extravagant demeanor was missing, and though he was taunting Matt in the usual brotherly way, it sounded almost forced. Matthew knew it was off somehow - he never watched anyone blindly, and he knew when something was bothering someone.

Alfred had _bothered_ written all over his face. His grin didn't reach his eyes, and there was a small hesitation before each jest. He was on edge about something, something that had to include Matthew (or else Alfred would have told him what was wrong by now). Knowing that calling Alfred out would only make him close up and deny everything, Matthew merely helped him set everything up silently, watching his brother's actions questioningly.

Halfway between the first movie, Matthew allowed himself to relax, and Alfred seemed to relax a bit as well. They bickered like they normally would and Alfred screamed (like a girl) when the climax of the horror flick occurred, grabbing Matt's arm in his panic. Matt had laughed, and they had moved on to the next movie.

After the movies, Alfred set up his game system and proceeded to allow Matt to thrash him at Mario Kart. Matt particularly enjoyed this, and laughed every time Alfred's car ran over an oil slick or was knocked to the side by a turtle shell or sent spinning by a comic banana peel. Alfred could curse all he wanted during that time, and utilized this fact, trying to distract Matt with as many strange, outlandish insults as possible. Matthew had thrown more than enough of his own strange comments back, which would send the two into peals of giggles. They would never admit it, but they felt like kids again.

Matthew called in a pizza at around eight at night, and they had had a minor eating contest, splitting one and a half pizzas with Alfred narrowly scarfing down more than Matthew. Then they had opened up cartons of ice cream and settled in for a third and final movie, Kumajirou lying between them on the couch, fast asleep.

It was around a quarter until midnight when Alfred made to leave, to head back south again. Matthew had offered for him to stay over, and Alfred had hesitated. With a little more wheedling, Alfred sighed and agreed to stay the night. For the heck of it, Matthew pulled out sleeping bags and moved the coffee table to make a big open space between the couch and the TV. Alfred had hugged him goodnight (in the good brotherly way) before squirming down into his sleeping bag. Matthew had slipped easily into his, and laid with his head toward Alfred's, sharing a pillow between them. Alfred was asleep in a moment, and Matt couldn't help but smile. It might not have been the greatest birthday gift ever, but Alfred could never know how much it mattered.

* * *

><p>The next morning was a rough awakening for Matthew as forty pounds of polar bear rolled off the couch and landed directly on his stomach. Besides having the wind knocked out of him, Matthew was sure the force of the blow had him seeing white. Then he realized that there was a piece of paper slipped over his face. He shoved Kumajirou (still sleeping) off his stomach and sat up gingerly, rubbing his bruising stomach as he unfolded the paper and read what was on it.<p>

_Sorry for everything, Mattie. This includes leaving early today and knocking your noggin yesterday. I hope you can forgive me._

Matt frowned, thoughtful. Alfred had been so subdued the day before... but asking forgiveness for such a small thing wasn't like him. He barely even apologized for the things that _would_ warrant an apology.

Things that Alfred had done that would warrant an apology...

His hands shook slightly and he dropped the paper, staring at them silently. For a while, he merely watched them shake.

Then, he stood and went to grab his hockey things.

* * *

><p>Perhaps it was coincidence that Kristina was at the rink again, but she didn't bother him and he kept away from her. He skated in idle circles, dribbling a puck around it and trying to make the circle as small as possible. His thoughts, like his actions, whirled around in circles.<p>

Kristina was skating back and forth across the ice behind him, over the center line, carrying boxes of equipment that had been left in the lockers by the official locker room back to the rental shop. Matthew idly remembered that, oh yeah, this was where she worked. She was focused and careful not to drop the boxes or slip on her skates, ignoring the few people on the ice as she worked and only paying attention to them to dodge them when they skated back and forth over the line. Matthew was more self confined, so she had no reason to pay him any mind.

He skated in circles like that for close to fifteen minutes, before the puck slipped from his dribbling and drifted over toward the center of the rink. He barely noted that almost everyone had left - morning skate was over, and yet no one had come over to tell him he had to leave. Kristina was skating out onto the ice again and intercepted the puck before he could. He blinked when he realized she had a hockey stick of her own and was looking at him with a small smile.

"You come here often, I take it?" the sarcastic almost-pickup line was so out of place for her that he blinked, feeling a sudden warmth in his chest that caused him to hesitantly smile back and chuckle. She passed his puck back to him idly, the speed nowhere near the possible speed he could have gotten it to, and he blinked at her.

"I've never played ice hockey before, but I have played keep-away with plastic hockey sticks and wiffle balls. How hard can it be?" Her voice was soft, and she grinned a little toward him, gesturing for him to pass the puck back. "Plus, you helped me learn how to not fall on my ass when skating backwards, so I guess I owe you a favor."

"I'll end up teaching you hockey too." Matt chuckled as he passed the puck to her.

"Then I'll play hockey with you, one on one, whenever you're down." she passed it back again, "You're too sweet to be depressed. I won't allow it."

Matt couldn't help but chuckle, "Is that an invitation for a date, then?" He mildly hoped it was, and at the same time hoped it wasn't. He hated having to break up with girls (or guys, as the case may have been) because of being a nation. But at the same time, he missed dating people (He had briefly dated Cuba but that hadn't quite lasted long, what with Alfred, and Cuba thinking he was Alfred...).

Her mouth curled upward into a wry grin, "Sorry, but I'm taken. You'll have to settle for me feeling sorry for you." her voice was taunting and good meaning, so he knew it wasn't meant as an

He shrugged with a laugh, hitting the puck back to her and sighing fakely, "It appears I just got friend-zoned. Shame."

"Hell, I treat my friends better than anyone else, so be happy." she chuckled and swung her hips a bit, singing under her breath, "Be happy, don't worry, be happy, _don't worry now_."

He laughed again. It was a small thing, but she had pulled him out of his repetitive thoughts, made them come to a point. He _couldn't_ help that two people had found his letters, Alfred and Japan, he couldn't help if_ anyone_ found them, but he _could_ help how he reacted to each reminder of the Dare.

_I wonder if that was her intention..._

* * *

><p>"You see Matt again?" Cindi asked when Kristina arrived back home in their moderately large, bright pink house (Kristina had complained that she always ended up living in a big pink house, though she wouldn't explain <em>when<em> this had started.

"Yeah." Kristina sighed, "He was depressed. Well, more depressed than usual. I think someone might have brought up the point of his depression. I hope I might have helped him, but I'm not sure, I might have just made him feel worse."

"Wonder when he'll realize we know more than we let on." Cindi mused idly as she started cooking lunch.

"Eh, he'll figure it out eventually. Until then, we can be friends with him."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So yeah. Cindi and Kristina (waifu and I) will only make brief appearances and will most likely not be of any importance to the story. (Also I included my imaginary evil twin at the beginning of the story. She's the one idly trying to seduce Alfred whilst he lives next door.) And this is, as I said, slowly becoming UKCan. If you don't approve, then TOUGH. There will still be fluffiness with everyone else, but UKCan WILL likely be lurking in the background. Along with the Fourth Wall Counter between Arthur the Unsociable Brit and Carma my muse for Sadistic Karma. And Arthur's Big Posh English House will always be involved.<strong>

**I had a rather random idea for an original story focusing on two robotic humans, but I don't know if it will come to anything at the moment. *shrugs* For now, it's just a fun idea to draw. Because I love drawing their robotic hands, they're freaking AWESOME and I can actually DRAW them when they don't look like human hands.**

**Anyway! Caio!  
><strong>


	5. France, The Fourth Letter

**A/N: **May I just say now that France, while he originally started as the character I wanted the least to do with, I have started to actually like his character. I blame waifu for this. She will know what I mean.

That being said, I do occasionally like Franada as a pairing. I can't write it worth shit, but I do enjoy reading it. Whenever I try to write it France gets all possessive and Matt gets all rebellious, and there is a lot of angst, and it generally doesn't happen to be fluff. This chapter is no exception - somehow, Francis managed to be the worst ever at Fluff and changed it into Angst.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Family. SORT OF FLUFF. ANGST. LOTS OF ANGST.

**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, France/Francis Bonnefoy, England/Arthur Kirkland, America/Alfred F. Jones

**Pairing: **France/Canada family wannabe fluff, UK/Canada forming in the background. America being a derp.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Word Count: **5,095 (GOD. So much typing.)**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Omake 4: France<br>**

"THE FOURTH LETTER"

* * *

><p>It would make sense to start with how Alfred had felt that morning on July second. While his citizens had a repressed air of excitement about them, he couldn't help but feel a little lost and confused. He had attempted to make it up to Matthew for what a jerk he had been - as he now realized he had been a jerk - but he never knew if Matthew forgave him - hell, for all he knew Matthew was still angry at him about the whole <em>Manifest Destiny<em> thing.

So while everyone around him were talking excitedly about big picnics and fireworks and water fights in the park, he was wandering around unsure of what to do or what to think, how to react and who to go to. He couldn't go to Arthur, Arthur never liked him visiting and he had just been over there, so going again would only annoy the Brit more. Plus, he didn't want to admit that he had been a massively idiotic _dick_ to Arthur, because knowing him, there would be a recorder somewhere that Arthur would use to play back the admission _over and over again_.

He couldn't go to Arthur.

He didn't want to think about possibly going to _Maria_. The southern half of Mexico, while she could have a good deal of intuition, wasn't one for keeping secrets without a price. She _was_ the head of one of the biggest international gossip circles among the nations - the Central and South American Gossip Circle. While he didn't doubt she'd have all the information, or at least would be able to find the information out, he didn't want to risk the price that would come with it. Her younger brother Alejandro wasn't much better. The northern half of Mexico would probably want a visa so he could hop over into Arizona unhindered.

He couldn't go to Arthur, and he couldn't go to his Southern neighbors, and he very obviously couldn't go _north_ to face Matthew head on. He may insist to being a hero all the time, but he was a downright coward when it came to relationships. Especially ones with people he was close to.

For a brief moment he entertained the thought of going to Prussia. His former general might know what to do... but then he remembered that the albino ex-nation was friends with Matthew, and rather protective of him at that, and he realized that admitting that he had hurt the albino's 'pet Canadian' was almost like _asking_ for a death sentence. Even if the 'pet Canadian' was his brother first and foremost. He kicked a can miserably down the street as he tried to think of someone he could go to with his guilt toward Canada.

Not England, not Mexico, not Prussia, not Canada himself...

When in doubt, it seemed, Alfred always turned to Francis. Even if it would turn into a huge mistake.

* * *

><p>Francis arched one delicate eyebrow at the almost-crying American on his porch step, a morning cigarette between his long thin fingers and the other hand brushing through his bed head. "I take it this isn't a visit to give yourself to me, <em>Amerique<em>." At Alfred's sniffle and shake of the head, the Frenchman sighed and stepped to the side, allowing access into his villa. "What's so bad that you couldn't go to _Angleterre_ for it?"

Alfred hesitated in the sparsely furnished lounge on the other side of the door as Francis closed it behind him, padding his way in stylish slippers toward the kitchen with his cigarette between his teeth again. Suddenly, he didn't feel like this had been a great idea. After all, Francis was the closest thing to Mattie's _father_ there could ever be. Plus, he had kind of woken the man up.

He had left Toronto Airport in Canada at 11:30 that morning, and had arrived in the Charles De Gaulle airport in France at what he would have believed to be 7:00 in the evening. But, he had failed to take timezones into account, and had instead arrived in Paris at about 1:00 in the morning on July third. He noted Francis' sleeping clothes and winced - he hadn't exactly planned this out well.

Francis took another long drag of smoke from the cigarette, a pot of coffee starting to brew in the kitchen, as he looked pointedly at Alfred with an annoyed glint in his azure eyes. "Well?"

Alfred shifted unsurely on his feet, regretting his decision to come to Francis. "U-Urk..." he bit his lip, "W-Well, um..."

Francis removed the cigarette from his mouth, walking over to Alfred and snuffing out the cigarette in the bowl on the table next to the American, standing uncomfortably close.

"_Amerique_, I can't help you with anything unless I know why you're so upset." the Frenchman said tiredly, "And I'd really rather like to help you so I can _go back to bed_."

Alfred nodded timidly, "W-Well, I... I'm actually not sure it was a good idea to come to you... but you were the only person I could think of at the moment who wouldn't hate me when I told you, but now that I think about it you'll probably hate me the most..."

"To the point, _Amerique_." Francis said dryly, still standing disturbingly close to Alfred. Alfred bit his lip again.

"I... I really hurt Mattie."

* * *

><p>Matthew hummed a bit to himself as he prepared to go to bed that evening, sighing as Kumajirou clambered up onto the bed to wait for him there. The bear had been more protective lately, seeming to sense that his master was a bit more distressed than usual (it was sad that there was a 'usual', Matthew realized). He walked over to the bed whilst pulling off his day shirt, stripping down to his boxers and scratching the bear behind the ears.<p>

"Unknown is still upset." Kumajirou said with a bear frown.

Matthew continued scratching idly, sighing a bit, "I can deal, Kuma. I'll be fine."

"Kuma doesn't like when Unknown is upset. Unknown forgets to do things when he's upset." the unspoken finish to that statement hung in the air - _like feeding Kuma_.

Matthew chuckled drily as he climbed under the covers, inviting the bear to take its usual place curled into his side by his right shoulder. Kumajirou nuzzled down into the offered spot and let out a low _whuff_ of air in a sigh, resting his ten pound head on Matthew's chest. "Unknown made brownies again today. Unknown has been making a lot of brownies."

"I've been needing a lot of brownies." Matt resumed petting Kumajirou, letting the darkness of the room and the warmth of the covers (and Kumajirou) lull him into a doze.

Kumajirou waited until Matthew was asleep before licking at the hand that had stopped petting him and watching his master's face loyally. "Kuma wishes Canada didn't hurt so much." the bear mumbled before closing his eyes.

* * *

><p><span>June 3rd, 2:51 AM<span>

Francis was not a very good spy.

Well, perhaps that wasn't _entirely_ true - Francis was not a very good spy, _unless_ it was in the purpose of infiltrating Arthur's big, posh, English house. _Then_ he _was_ a _very_ good spy.

He knew where every window was, even the window upstairs which marked Arthur's room (Not that he _stalked_ his former partner in any way, _heavens_ no.) and he knew which of them squeaked when they were pried open, and which ones didn't. He knew - well, had a basic idea - of how Arthur's security system (read: 'fairy friends') would alert Arthur to his presence, and how to avoid 'them'. And he knew where Matthew and Alfred's old room was in the big house - it was the only room that still had two beds in it.

Francis, when it suited him, or when it was in Arthur's case, could be a very effective infiltrator. When he didn't have Alfred tagging along behind him _trying_ to be _cool_.

(AKA, attempting to be a spy, but going about it in the 'James Bond' fashion. Sometimes, Francis wondered why he didn't revert to his _effective_ spy skills, the ones he had used during the Cold War.)

In most cases, including the aforementioned one, he was hideously inept. It was an absolute _miracle_ that Arthur wasn't alerted to the fact they were there.

But the fact remains that he wasn't, and they managed to (somehow) infiltrate the house and get to Alfred and Matthew's former room on the second floor. Francis had banished Alfred to _his_ old bed while he crouched down to look under Matthew's old bed, prying the floorboard loose with his long, thin fingers.

He pulled out the box, sparing Alfred a glance to ensure that it was the right one. At Alfred's nod, he stood again and led the way out of the room again.

He paused at the bottom of the staircase, rather thoughtful, and then handed the box to Alfred. Under his breath, he murmured that he was going to go check on Arthur. The Brit hadn't appeared despite the obnoxiously blatant signs that there was someone in his house.

He inched back up the stairs, pointing Alfred toward the front door after telling him in a hissed voice "Don't. Touch. _Anything_."

When he reached the upper floor of the house, he inched down the hallway and made his way to the closed door that marked Arthur's master bedroom. His grip on the doorknob was as light as it could be and still able to open the door. He opened it a crack and peered inside.

Arthur was sprawled messily across the bed - which was Francis' first indication that something was wrong. The messy haired sandy blond always slept straight unless something was wrong enough that he would actually flop onto the bed - either Arthur had been upset by something enough that he had little care about laying straight, or he had been tired enough that he didn't have the energy to.

The second indication that something was wrong with the man he had once been married to was that there were fast food cartons - _fast food!_ - littering his bedroom. Arthur _never_ bought fast food unless it was a last resort, and there had to be a three days worth of meals from various fast food restaurants on the bedside dresser. It seemed that Arthur had bought Chinese the night before, since an empty carton was in his left hand (which was hanging off the bed limply) and a single chopstick was in his right (Francis briefly wondered to where the second chopstick had disappeared).

He walked over silently to take a closer look at Arthur, finding him fully passed out - probably from the sudden influx of fast food he seemed to have put himself through. A ginger touch did not stir the sandy blond man, Francis found, and so he carefully shifted the sleeping man to be lying straight in the bed. He slipped the empty Chinese food carton out of the slack hand, finding the second chopstick and putting it with the first (the second had been under the window, possibly from Arthur throwing it when he flopped back...?).

He tucked Arthur under the covers, leaning down and brushing his chapped lips against Arthur's forehead. On any other occasion he would have kissed the Brit's lips, but something stopped him from doing so - something told him that the man he had once been married to no longer had any semblance of love for him. The bushy-browed man's heart was falling - and falling fast - for someone else.

He retreated from the room after a brief moment of cleaning up, slipping back downstairs again and preceding an unusually somber Alfred out the front door.

Neither of them had noticed the pair of vibrant pink eyes that had been watching them on their entire mission. The tiny fae, only about three inches tall, hovered on brilliant fuchsia wings in the shadows. There was a significant sense of importance about the scene she had just witnessed. She briefly debated whether she should tell Arthur about what had happened.

She would forget to by the time she had gotten a chance. Arthur would not wake up until quite late that next day - past 2 in the afternoon that July the third.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Day eight... every passing day was getting worse. I couldn't stand the thought that there were still twenty two more days of it. On day nine, Kumajirou couldn't remember my name.<strong>_

_**For the first time. Ever.**_

_**I was writing almost constantly to France, to Francis, to Papa. I missed him so much. A part of me wished he hadn't lost the French and Indian War. Maybe then I wouldn't have been torn away from him. Maybe then Alfred wouldn't have Dared me to go a month without talking. Maybe, Arthur and Al would still be living together, Empire and Colony.  
><strong>_

_**Maybe then I'd still have my voice.  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>It was nine-o'clock in the morning on July third in Ottawa (Around the world somewhere, Arthur was just beginning to stir), the leaves were rustling in a faint breeze but it wasn't overly strong. There was a beam of sunlight passing through the window...<p>

...and two coal black eyes staring into his as he slowly opened them.

Matthew, of course, fell out of the bed at the sight.

* * *

><p>It was nine thirty that morning, Matthew had gotten dressed and had tidied up his room. Halfway across the world, Arthur had awoken and was cleaning himself up.<p>

A plane landed in Ottawa airport, followed by a second. Matthew watched it pass over his house as it approached the airport on the other side of the city. Then he bent back down and attempted to tend to the flowerbeds of tulips that Lars had sent him that year. In the house, a batch of brownies was cooking in the oven.

* * *

><p>At precisely ten-o'clock that morning, when Matthew had gone back inside and had taken the brownies out of the oven in order to let them cool (and so he could cook his brunch), there came a knock at the door. He felt a strange sense of foreboding wash over him and knew that this visitor was one of great consequence.<p>

He shuffled toward the door with a sigh and pulled it open.

He hadn't even gotten a good look at the visitor before he was pulled into a fierce hug; the slightly shorter (almost everyone was shorter than him, though, so this was no surprise) and stockier (again, he was ridiculously lanky, no surprise) male (most of the people he knew were male) was clutching onto him as though he were a lifeline. Long strands of curly blond hair rested against his cheek - not his own. The only other male he knew with longer, curly blond hair was...

"Papa...?"

Francis was shaking, holding onto him tightly. When he allowed Matthew to pull back and look at him, Matthew had to stare.

If Alfred was discernibly _bothered_ two days before, Francis had witnessed an absolute horror. The man had always worn his heart on his sleeve, and his face was twisted with barely contained pain. Matthew suspected that if it weren't for the Frenchman's spectacular self control (he would need a lot of self control - no matter how many times he brushed off comments of being a 'sex offender' or a 'rapist', they still hurt) then his former father figure would be bawling his eyes out at the moment.

Francis was flamboyant, but when his emotions were true, there was never any flamboyancy to his actions.

With shaky hands, Francis reached up to Matthew's collar and pulled it down, one finger pressing against the scar. Matthew felt an involuntary shiver run down his spine.

"_Pourquoi es-ce que tu ne me l'as pas dit?"_

Matthew couldn't help it that moment.

_He cried._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: AND YOU KNOW WHAT. THAT'S HOW THE CHAPTER ENDS. Kay thanks bye.<strong>

**No, I'm just kidding. Here's the rest, written about twenty hours after this first part - because it was fucking half past one in the morning and I seriously needed sleep.**

* * *

><p>Across the world, Arthur sat in indecision in his big, comfortable leather lounge chair. He glanced wearily up at the kitchen every few seconds, and at the phone in the short hallway between the kitchen and the lounge, before looking quickly back down to his feet. It was tea time. He wasn't sure if he was brave enough or strong enough to stand and walk into the kitchen for tea.<p>

_Matthew making me feel like an absolute, idiotic, ignorant bastard, or tea..._ he mentally debated, shifting his weight guiltily in the chair. The leather made a squeaking sort of noise.

He glanced at the kitchen again. He glanced at the phone. He looked down.

For a brief moment, he wondered why he felt so afraid of facing what he had done to Matthew. He wondered why he cared so much about what he had done to the Canadian. Usually, he didn't dwell on hurts he had caused anyone in history, not Francis, not Alfred, not his older brothers... and especially not Matthew. He usually didn't dwell on Matthew at all.

But lately, he hadn't been able to get the boy out of his head. He was worried about what he had done. It felt like he had done a grave injustice... ignoring it would have just made him a worse person. He felt like a coward for not wanting to face it head on.

At the kitchen. At the phone. At his feet.

_Am I really going to sit here and pretend nothing happened?_

Matthew was a kind, caring person. He was quiet, but his eyes spoke volumes whenever someone would just _look at him_. Arthur had begun looking, and now he could see in his own memories the longing spark that had been in the violet eyes during all those meetings when he never got to speak.

Arthur was looking, now.

_I won't hurt him any more... I promise this, Matthew, I... I want to protect you._

With that, he stood up.

* * *

><p><em>Pourquoi es-ce que tu ne me l'as pas dit?<em> Why didn't you tell me?

* * *

><p>There was a bit of time there where Matthew's mind merely blanked. A few moments that, later, he would not have any recollection of. <em>Francis was touching his scar<em>.

* * *

><p><em>Porquoi es-ce que tu ne...<em>

* * *

><p>Francis hesitantly stepped forward, a sense of worry passing over him as Matthew's eyes dulled and clouded over. The Canadian's shoulders began shaking, but the rest of his body was deceptively still and tense. Francis's thumb remained on the scar as he brought his other hand up to touch Matthew's cheek. "<em>Mathieu... mon petit...?<em>"

* * *

><p><em>Pourquoi je ne...?<em>

* * *

><p>A slight movement of Francis's thumb across the scar sent Matthew reeling away from him, letting out a quiet keen of almost-pain - <em>it felt like the knife, oh god, oh god, pain - <em>his eyes were blank and seeing nothing -_ it hurts, oh god, it hurts..._ - Francis's eyes widened. He stepped forward again in slight panic at the sound - _that was not a sound Matthew should be making_ - and reached toward the Canadian, "M-M-_Mathieu_!"

* * *

><p><em>Pourquoi je ne le lui ai pas dit...?<em>

* * *

><p>A frenzied hand swept out and knocked into Francis's cheek, snapping his head painfully to the side. Matthew curled in upon himself and huddled in a corner, bringing his hands over his head and doing his best to protect his neck, shaking like a leaf and still making strange, almost voiceless keening sounds. It took Francis a second to realize that there were tears of fear and phantom pain tracing down Matthew's face. He looked... helpless.<p>

* * *

><p>Why didn't I tell him? <em>Why didn't I tell him? <em>

* * *

><p>Francis was half dazed from the blow to his cheek - even though Matthew looked thin and less-than-muscular, he could pack quite a punch - and couldn't think straight. He could vaguely see that Matthew was shaking violently, and could faintly see the tears trailing down his face, but the thing that worried him most was the sounds. Soft, almost non-existent, as though Matthew had no voice to make them at all... they were the most heart-wrenching things he had heard in his centuries of life.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Why <em>couldn't_ I tell him...?_

* * *

><p>A sharp ringing noise broke the trance that Matthew had fallen into, repetitive bell sounds coming in a shrill succession. It took him a full second to unclench all his muscles before he realized that the ringing was his phone. His breath came in shaky gasps and he slumped against the wall, shaking still, for a few seconds before pushing to his feet unsteadily and lifting the phone off the hook. "H-Hello?"<p>

"_Matthew?_"

The voice on the other end held a slight note of worry in it and Matthew breathed out shakily as he recognized the accent. "A-Arthur?"

"_You sound shaken..._"

"It's nothing." Matthew said softly. "Um... why are you calling...?"

"_I'll... admit that it was a sudden decision..._" Arthur suddenly sounded unsure of himself, "_I... just wanted to make sure you were okay. You haven't, er, been harassed by that great ugly gorilla of a homophobe since I was last over there, have you?_"

"I-It's only been a couple of days, Arthur. I don't go to Timmie's that often..." Matthew brought a hand shakily to his own throat, not touching the scar but the skin around it. Francis's head cleared enough to recognize the action and he winced as he realized Matthew's partial shutting down was most likely his fault. For once, he thanked Arthur's ability to call people at the most stressing times. It seemed to have calmed Matthew down... though his voice was still much fainter than it had been before.

"_Matthew._" Arthur's voice took on a stern, parental sort of tone. "_I can tell when something's wrong - I'm not _that_ dense._" Matthew almost couldn't help but smile at the phrase. He wanted to respond with a cheeky 'oh, really? You could have fooled me!', but found that he didn't have the lasting good humor to actually do it. His faint smile fell again as a wave of weariness washed over him.

For a few seconds he allowed himself to wonder what had happened.

"It's nothing, okay? Nothing I can't handle. You don't have to worry."

There was a distinct pause as Arthur seemed to search for words to say, before, "_Don't hesitate to call me if something's bothering you. I know I'm hard to talk to, but..._" he trailed off, seeming to not know how to finish that statement. Matthew's tiny smile stayed that time. He still had tears tracing down his cheeks from his subconscious breakdown.

"I will. Thanks, Arthur... I mean it."

"_You're welcome, Matthew..._" a wave of warmth filled Matthew's chest and he felt his cheeks flush a little at the force of the sudden feeling that had been in Arthur's voice. "_I'll, er, I'll see you at the next world meeting. It's on the seventh._"

"See you there... thanks for the information." Matthew said softly. "B-Bye."

"_G... Goodbye._"

Both parties hung up with a shaky hand and pink cheeks.

* * *

><p>Matthew noticed Francis's bruising cheek a second later. For a few moments he fussed over the man. Francis was careful not to let anything, his hands, his head, his shoulders, get too near to Matthew's neck. He was silent.<p>

Matthew seemed to have blanked out from before the phone call, he didn't even seem to know why Francis was there. Francis didn't have the energy to shush the young nation, and so let the bespectacled blond fret over his cheek and check his head. When Matthew had helped him up and over to the couch, sitting him down, he focused in on his former colony's face. "_Mathieu_..._"_

"I'll go fetch some wine. That should help with any pain... and some ice too! I'll get ice! Er... should I get Advil...?" Matthew blinked to himself, before shaking his head, "I'll stick with the ice for now... the ice and the wine..."

Sometimes it amazed Francis how much his usually silent former colony could _talk_.

Matthew hurried off into the kitchen, leaving Francis alone on the couch. Kumajirou wandered over to him, staring at him with soulless black eyes in a way that sent a shiver down Francis's spine. "You hurt Canada." the bear said (read: growled). "You scared him. Kuma let no one scare Canada. You _don't do it again_."

Francis nodded shakily and Kumajirou flopped down where he was standing, his muzzle (and his very sharp _teeth_) warningly close to Francis's ankle. Matthew returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses in one arm, and an ice pack in the other.

Kumajirou looked up with a blink, "Unknown, hungry."

"There's fish in your bowl Kuma, I thought of that." Matthew smiled softly. Kumajirou nodded a bit and lumbered to his feet, moving around Matthew to the kitchen.

Matthew pressed the ice pack to Francis's cheek, eyes intent in their usual caring way. "What happened, anyway...?"

"A-Ah, just a minor scuffle in town, _Mathieu_. Nothing to worry about." Francis forced a shaky smile onto his face, letting Matt tend to the wound he himself had unknowingly inflicted. For a few moments, there was an unsure silence between them (Matthew wasn't completely sure what was going on and Francis wasn't sure how to proceed). Francis cleared his throat as he remembered something he could use as an excuse for his being here. "A-Ah... I missed your birthday, didn't I? It was a few days ago. That... Th-That was why I came here. T-To apologize."

"Ah." Matthew smiled a bit, accepting the explanation; he didn't want to question the man further, even though he felt like there was something else Francis wasn't saying. He glanced at the wine on the table, "Well, erm, we can, uh, have a little belated party then, eh?"

Francis smiled a bit, "I... I would be happy to do that."

The significance of the visit still hung in the air, but Matthew didn't question it. For the next few hours he enjoyed spending time with his former father figure, drinking wine and talking about things ("How are Msrs Sarkozy and Fillon?" "They're doing quite well... how is Msr Harper?" "Oh, he's been doing well. He called me the other day about a meeting that he was going to have with Alfred's president, but I got the impression that he was mentioning it in order to convince me to be dragged along as well..."). After an hour or so they decided to turn on the TV (Francis was so proud to find the Rachael Ray marathon taped on Matthew's TV...) and they sat together on the couch for a while.

Around seven-o'clock that evening, after drinking quite a bit of wine and watching three or four hours of Rachael Ray, Matthew dozed off and leaned against Francis in his sleep; he never had been very able to drink wine very well. Francis smiled slightly at Matthew's sleeping face and toyed a bit with his hair, before gently moving the Canadian to be laying down on the couch. Kumajirou hopped up and Matthew seemed to instinctively curl around the bear in his sleep. Within seconds, the bear had fallen asleep as well. Francis stood up and leaned down to brush his lips against Matthew's cheek, before he turned and walked toward the door.

Matthew would realize why Francis had been there again much later after he woke up.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: THERE. NOW it's done. I've got to say, that Matt-breakdown scene might be the scene I'm the most proud of in this entire story thus far. It was a bitch to write, but the result was <em>so damn satisfying<em>.**

**If you're wondering why Matt turned happy again after the breakdown, it was partially because he couldn't remember breaking down (or the reason for the breakdown), and because Arthur had called him, and because Francis was there visiting him and he usually gets happy to have visitors. Until they bring up the Dare.**

**I have this sort of idea, which will show up as the first scene of next chapter... you'll see what I'm talking about then. I won't spoil it now.**

**I'd really really really like a review please. c: Lots of them, actually.**

**EDIT: Major thanks to Red Hot Holly Berries for corrections in Fronch!  
><strong>


	6. Prussia, The Fifth Letter

**A/N: WHOO PRUCAN**. Not even kidding, this was my first OTP for my entire obsession with APH. Sure, I had some minor pairing fan tendencies and some major ones later (such as UKCan, which is adorably awkward) but PruCan always was and always will be my first and biggest OTP. I can't even tell you how many angsty ideas I've had for Fem!Canada being stuck between Arthur and Gilbert. ;D Cheating ideas, confusion, ideas involving BROTHELS...

I'll shut up now. ;D

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Family. FLUFF.

**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, England/Arthur Kirkland, Prussia/Gilbert Beilschmidt, Netherlands/Lars Hofstadter (Microsoft Word corrected "Hofstee" and I had to leave it because it looks freaking AWESOME)

Lesser parts to Maria and Alejandro Hernandez, my twin Mexico OCs, France/Francis Bonnefoy, and Kuma's starting to have his own part. I should put him up here more.

**Pairing: **Not really a lot of PruCan fluff, surprisingly. This is more story-centric than fluff. Slight Neth/Can in the first scene though. UKCan forming in the background, taking a bit more precedence.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz Himaruya.

**Word Count: **4,142**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Omake 5: Prussia<br>**

"THE FIFTH LETTER"

* * *

><p><span>July 5th, 8:26 AM, Amsterdam, Netherlands<span>

It only took Lars about three seconds to recognize him - a new record, if one was to be brutally honest about the dutch man - his face went from its usual pleasantly-high expression at the opening of the door to a second of confusion, trying to place his face, then to a brief instant of recognition (his eyes widened minutely as he realized that it was _Matthew_ on his doorstep) and then to the final look of worry that graced his features indiscriminately. Without a word, he stepped to the side and offered to let Matthew pass through his door. Matthew stepped forward in just as much silence.

As Lars closed the door, he spoke up, "Didn't expect you back for another few weeks. You went through that kilo pretty fast." his voice left a questioning noise at the end of the statement. Matt shrugged.

"Alfred showed up a couple of times... drained my stash... that's all."He looked away as he paused in the parlor of the big Amsterdam home. Lars' house usually smelled faintly of marijuana, and that smell was usually even more prevalent around the dutch man himself. Matthew found the smell comforting, a familiar and calming smell.

"You're lying, Matthew." Lars said slowly, "I can tell, I can always tell when you're lying. You've been hurting even more than usual. _What happened_?"

Matt looked over at Lars silently, without a word. After a few seconds, Lars sighed and pointed to his living room couch. "Sit."

Matthew walked over quietly and sat.

Lars walked to the armchair across from Matthew, sitting down and staring with incredibly sober eyes at the other blond. "Talk."

Matthew looked down at his lap, not saying a word.

Lars's eyes narrowed, and he stood up again angrily, "Damnit, Matt, I'm not kidding! I'm really worried! Now talk!"

Silence.

Lars managed to calm himself down, sighing and sitting back down for a moment before looking up at Matt again, "It's about that damned Dare, isn't it?" He didn't miss Matthew's two winces - the first, involuntary wince in response to the mention of the Dare, and the second wince of guilt from Lars being correct. Lars brought a hand in annoyance to pinch the bridge of his nose, "You adorable little bastard. You fucking adorable little bastard..."

Lars had been the first and only person that Matthew had willingly told about the letters; back in 1945 after helping the Dutch princess Juliana and her daughters, Lars had personally come to thank Matthew and had sensed that something was bothering him. And indeed, Matthew had been bothered - it had been one of those days when the past hovered close over his shoulders and the letters were at the forefront of his mind. When Lars had pestered Matthew to know what was wrong and had gotten weak denials, he had gone into a determined attack pattern, not letting up until Matthew finally admitted everything - until he had wrested every last scrap of detail from the Canadian.

He hadn't held any pity when he learned everything from Matthew, but he had reluctantly agreed to share his stash. As the years went by, he even grew cheery about it on a normal basis. But Matthew's visit today had come only about two weeks after the last time Lars had shared his stash, when usually Matthew lasted about a month.

Matthew hesitantly looked up and began to explain, voice soft and halting, "Th...three people know about the letters. Japan knows, which I would be okay with - he keeps his mouth shut, generally - but then _Alfred_ found out..."

Lars nodded in understanding.

"...and then _Papa..._"

A low whistle came from Lars' mouth, "And your response was to use two and almost a half pounds of weed in less than two weeks. That's not healthy, Matt. You're stifling the depression, you're not treating it, you're bottling it." he leaned back in the dark green lounge chair, closing his eyes thoughtfully, "This might be a good thing..." he said distantly.

Matthew's look of surprise and betrayal did not escape his attention.

"Don't give me those puppy dog eyes, you adorable bastard, I'm just being honest. Depression is like a wound, a deeply cut one. Usually it heals slow and steady from the inside out. You forced yours to heal backwards, from the outside, so no one can see it at a glance, and as a result it heals haltingly. You should have been _over_ this, Matthew, you should have been over this in a little under a year - it's been _two fucking centuries_."

Lars was easy to annoy when sober, and more prone to using curse words. Matthew had learned this a long time ago - it didn't even phase him now.

Lars' amber eyes locked onto Matthew's blue-violet ones for a long, meaningful moment. After the silence, Lars stood up and grabbed a bag of leaves and tossed them at Matthew, "I still say this is a good thing, forcing your wound to stay open so it can heal properly. Sure, it's gonna hurt like a bitch while it's healing, but you'll thank everyone later. Maybe not out loud, but you'll be thanking everyone."

Matt caught the bag of marijuana leaves and pursed his lips at Lars, "We'll see about that... if I don't find some way to kill myself for real this time."

He stood and left, not paying any mind to Lars' considering stare after him.

"You would be the one to do it, bro." he muttered softly, sighing and shaking his head.

* * *

><p>Darkness was something familiar to him, something he was used to. The soft enveloping feel consistently wrapped around him, a blanket of comfort. The night was warm with the faint light of a waxing moon and a thousand thousand stars. There was the feel of dew between his toes, the grass bending damply under his bare feet. He was familiar with all of the feelings - the lingering warmth of the day before, the feel of dampness under his feet, and the constant envelopment of darkness.<p>

Admittedly, the sense of urgency he felt was a bit new. As was the weight on his back.

He hurried along as silently as he could through the folds of shadows, moving toward the big shadow that he knew was, during the day, a brilliant oak tree, spreading its leaves into the sky and pulling the light toward it. The light that flocked to the big tree seemed afraid of it now - the entire area was drenched in darkness. He didn't pause before the more intense shadows, plunging right in almost as fearlessly as he would have during the day.

(..._ee...?_)

He slipped into a little alcove in the roots, curling up there for a moment before twisting and slipping the knapsack off his back. He didn't open it, merely looked down at it, for a long moment.

He had once thought that he would be emotional at a time like this, but that wasn't true. There was no clench of emotions in his heart, there was no reliving of the reasons he was doing it, reaffirming that he was indeed going to _do it_. He had made the decision already. No amount of reaffirmation was needed.

There was no emotion about what he was doing right now. If there was emotion he would be breaking down and wouldn't have the strength to do what he wanted to do. That made sense now. Emotions would have distracted him - best to be apathetic.

He opened the knapsack.

(_...rdie...?_)

It was April ninth, 1775, sometime just before midnight. The knife was heavy in his thin, delicate hands. His eyes studied the serrated edge for a few seconds and he mentally prepared himself for pain.

Easy. He had been dealing with pain for at least the past week. Maybe two. He had lost count of the days. One more bit of pain to make it go away was doable.

He steadied his grip on the handle, looked up one last time through the half-light toward Arthur's big, posh, English house, and brought the knife to his neck.

For a second he almost broke the Dare again. To say goodbye.

_But it's not like anyone would hear me anyway... why bother?_

He took a deep breath, and counted to three.

_One_...

("Birdie!")

_Two..._

("Seriously, dude, wake up! Bi-")

_Three._

Everything went black.

* * *

><p>"-rdie, <em>gott verdammt<em>, you sleep like a fucking _rock_!"Gilbert shoved Matthew's shoulder again, scowling. "Come on, wake u~up!" he whined.

Matthew's expression was calm, but Gilbert knew that meant little - Matthew was one of those strange people who could be screaming inside and show nothing outwardly. His face was a bit pale, however, which alerted Gilbert that something was not right. He let go of Matthew's shoulder, sighing.

Matthew grumbled in a half asleep state, "Rocks don't sleep, Gilbert..."

Gilbert grinned and leaned forward near Matthew's face. When Matthew's eyes opened, he had to hold in a laugh at the sudden yelp that escaped the Canadian's mouth. "D-Don't _do_ that!" Matthew snapped weakly, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. "What _time _is it...?"

"About three in the morning. Tell 'merica I said happy birthday, gotta do something later and won't be coming to the party."

Party. Today was July fourth, Alfred's birthday. And it was three in the morning. "Ughhh... why are you here?"

"Why do you think?" Gilbert grinned, poking Matthew off the couch. Matthew grumbled a little, "If you say pancakes, I swear I'll shove your cross down your throat." He reluctantly rolled his neck to wake himself up farther.

"But Mattieeeee~" Gilbert whined, "You always make me pancakes~"

Matthew sighed, "I'm not happy with this." He informed Gilbert as he walked toward the kitchen.

"So what were you dreaming about? It seemed pretty unawesome. Bet it didn't have me in it. Ergo, being unawesome, and ergo bad." Gilbert followed Matthew into the kitchen, chuckling a bit. Matthew stiffened a tiny bit, and Gilbert blinked, "Hah! I'm right aren't I? Awesome."

"I'm just surprised you used the word 'ergo' correctly." Matthew grumbled tiredly, trying to keep his voice from shaking and showing how much the dream had affected him. He pulled out a bowl and a spoon, starting to make the batter. He might as well make enough for himself as well - he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore this morning.

Gilbert continued nattering on behind him while he worked, but Matthew couldn't hear anything. He could only hear the stifling sound of his own silence.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Day ten. Only a third of the way through the Dare. I broke it that night, March thirtieth. (1) I broke it, but my voice had already suffered from the ten days of disuse. It was only a mumble. <strong>_

_**My voice now is about a mumble, one hundred years after the Dare finished. Thirty days destroyed it. One hundred years has not yet healed it.**_

_Two hundred years still hasn't healed it... Maybe it'll never be fully healed._

_**I was an idiot. I was an absolute, prideful idiot. I knew I should stop at that point, I knew that I was already suffering more than I could stand, but I kept going. Why? Was I afraid that Alfred would go to war with me? Was I afraid he wouldn't be able to look at me the same?**_

_**No. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to look at myself the same. I was too proud, too determined to see this through to the end, and win the total war I was fighting against my own voice.**_

_I made it through. Unfortunately... I also won.  
><em>

* * *

><p><span>July 4th, 3:29 PM, Glendale, Arizona<span>

Alfred's birthday party was one of the things that, every year, Arthur would swear he wasn't going to and would always find himself at when it came right down to it. There was always pain at the sight of Alfred's proud grin, slight pain at the remembrance of what the day signified, but this time Arthur lingered in the corner of the big room where everyone was mingling and talking and saw a more serious expression on Alfred's face.

Francis wasn't at the party, for some strange reason, and neither was Prussia. Antonio and Lovino were standing by the punch bowl chatting loudly and happily (Antonio) or annoyedly (Lovino) whilst surreptitiously glancing at the nations dancing in the center of the room.

Maria and Alejandro Hernandez, the two embodiments of Mexico, were dancing along to the loud, pulsing music of Shakira and Enrique Iglesias which Alfred was playing over the speakers. Arthur allowed his eyes to follow the two Mexican siblings doing almost-risque moves to the music. He glanced at Antonio and Lovino again and saw Antonio watching Maria in an almost hungry fashion.

Lovino noticed it too, and smacked Antonio. Maria was not his property any more, and she cared nothing for him now. Alejandro was taken as well. Antonio's empire lust would get him nothing.

Arthur chuckled mildly from his corner, watching other people in the party. Alfred was talking with Japan in a less conspicuous corner, face serious. Japan was saying something and Alfred nodded with - oh _ho_, what's this? - a _guilty_ expression.

Arthur watched them for a moment, wishing he knew how to read lips. He wasn't quite proficient in that skill - Francis was usually much better, but Arthur would be damned before he asked _him_. Such was life.

He saw Matthew walk into the room and glance around a little before seeing Alfred and Japan. His face went ever so slightly paler and he went in the opposite direction. Alfred's party was usually very loud and rambunctious but there was something about the day today - a tenseness in the atmosphere - that made everyone hesitate to be as happy as they could.

Maria was one of the few who was still enjoying herself just as much as she was capable of doing. She didn't seem to care about the tension in the atmosphere.

(Arthur didn't know that Maria had known about the Dare for ages, and she had stopped caring. She hadn't told Matthew that she knew, but Matthew had a slight idea of her knowing.)

Arthur pushed off the wall and followed Matthew, not sure why he had the sudden urge to go talk to the Canadian. He had a slight hesitation to the action - what would he say? Should he bring up the knife? - but he knew that he had to at least go make sure Matthew was alright.

He trailed after Matthew for a few rooms before losing track of where he was. He checked a few more rooms, but Matthew was nowhere to be found.

Arthur left the party shortly after that.

* * *

><p><span>July 4th, 3:46 PM, Paris, France<span>

Gilbert sat down opposite of Francis in his classy villa, blinking at the somber look the Frenchman was giving him. Francis had called him the day before with a shaky voice and asked him to come see him as soon as possible. Gilbert had told him he'd be over while Alfred's party was occurring, if that was okay, and said he had to go see Matthew first about some pancakes.

That had made Francis choke on his breath, and Gilbert had gotten the idea that it had something to do with Matthew. Now, he looked at France as though the man was going to tell him that Birdie had terminal cancer or something.

Instead, Francis pulled a box from the drawer in the table next to the couch, where he was sitting. He gingerly opened the box. "I... _Amerique_ alerted me to these... their existence. _Mathieu_ wrote these a month before _Amerique _fought _Angleterre_ for the first time - the battles of Lexington and Concord, I believe. They're... I've been restoring them. Moving their messages to new pieces of paper." He handed them to Gilbert, "These are the originals... please, be careful with them."

Gilbert glanced at Francis in confusion, taking the box and looking down at the slips of paper inside. He picked up the biggest sheaf and scanned it, red eyes moving back and forth over the words and expression slowly growing more serious.

He put down the sheaf of paper and pulled out the papers one by one, reading them; his eyes darkened.

"He never told me about this..."

"He's never told anyone, as far as I know. I believe in all, you, myself, and four other people know about them."

(In actuality, five other people knew.)

"Who are the other four?" Gilbert asked softly.

"_Amerique_, obviously, as well as Japan, and Maria Hernandez knows everything there is to know - and tells her twin everything - so the Mexico twins most likely know." Francis responded with a soft voice, "I'm... not sure how _Mathieu_ has bribed Maria not to tell anyone else."

(It included pictures of Alfred once a year, and a consistent way into Alfred's birthday party... and knowledge of where Alfred hid his spare key, so she could get into his house, in case anyone was wondering.)

Gilbert continued reading for a long moment, going from paper to paper and lingering on the fifth one. _You want to disappear._

It was four words. Four simple words that had so much meaning behind them - Matthew had wanted to disappear... Gilbert had almost disappeared when he had been dissolved. There was an emotional _click_.

_His nightmare_.

Gilbert put the letters back in the box with a heavy swallow. "What can I do? This happened two and a half centuries ago..."

"It's still affecting him..." Francis sighted. "He has a scar on his neck... I touched it and he..." he shivered at the memory. "W-Well. The point is, _Mathieu _refuses to face this on his own... I can't think of anyone better suited to causing a commotion than you, _Prusse_."

"Gee... thanks." Gilbert muttered shakily, "I guess... I'll have to do my best to do this then."

He pushed to his feet, picking up the box. "I'll make sure people find out about this... these." He nodded, "If everyone knows, he can't pretend it didn't happen. It'll paint me as a dick, but it should help him." he looked away. "I wish you weren't giving these to me, Francis, I hate hurting him. He's put up with me better than _you _usually do."

"I know..." Francis nodded slightly, face pained, "But I hate seeing him so hurt in the first place."

"Yeah... I guess you've got a point about that."

* * *

><p><span>July 4th, 5:57 PM, Glendale, Arizona.<span>

Matthew curled up around Kumajirou as he sat in bed, shaking vaguely. He had hidden in one of Alfred's spare rooms in the house, intending to wait out the end of the party and then catch a late plane back home. He had had a feeling that this party would be a bad idea, but he had promised Alfred that he would come.

He clung to Kumajirou shakily, eyes closed, "This was a bad idea, Kuma..." he mumbled softly.

"Unknown..." Kumajirou nuzzled his chin worriedly. "We go home. We stay home. We lock the doors. No one bother Canada."

Matthew looked down at Kumajirou with slightly wide eyes, still shaking, "K-Kuma... did you just call me..."

"Unknown is shaking." Kumajirou noted as he nuzzled his head underneath Matthew's chin and into his neck. "Unknown scared?"

Matthew sighed and tightened his hold on Kumajirou. "More than I have been in a long time." he admitted. deciding that he had probably imagined Kumajirou actually remembering who he was.

The door opened a crack and a tanned face peered in, brown eyes framed by black hair. "_Hola, Matteo_." Maria smiled slightly as she stepped into the doorway, "Just wanted to thank you again for convincing _Alfredo_ to let _mi hermano y yo_ to come to the party." She pulled something out of her pocket and tossed it to him - an old gold coin.

Matt caught it.

Maria gave a small, sweet smile - as opposed to her usual impish one. "Been saving that. _España_ gave it to me when Jandro and I were his colonies; called it a good luck charm. Jandro is going to give the matching one to someone when they need it most." she walked over and kissed his forehead, "Might give you the luck you need." Then she walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Matthew glanced down at the coin - there were probably only two in the world, one with Jandro and the one in his hand. People had stopped making coins like this back in... well, the fifteen hundreds. He wondered how long Maria and Jandro had held onto their 'lucky coins'.

He felt a slight warmth in his chest - it was good to know his almost-cousin figure cared enough (or at least noticed enough) to know that he was a minute away from a panic attack. Almost without his really noticing, he smiled.

Kumajirou growled happily and licked his cheek.

* * *

><p><span>July 4th, 7:36 PM, Phoenix, Arizona<span>

Arthur settled into his hotel room, sighing. His flight back to London, where the monthly World Meeting was going to be held, was early the next morning. He collapsed onto the hotel bed with a sigh, holding his head.

All he wanted to do was sleep. He was tired enough to do so... but he couldn't. Something wasn't letting him go to sleep.

He covered his eyes with the palms of his hands, digging them into his eye sockets in annoyance. It was a bit after half past three in the morning (of July fifth, nonetheless!) back in England, and he hadn't slept since he woke up at two in the afternoon (July third) in London time. A bit of idle math told him that he had been awake for about thirty seven and a half hours.

His body was drained, but he couldn't sleep. He had gone from a fifteen hour sleep to a thirty seven hour insomnia in less than a day. He had never been struck by such inconsistencies in his sleep pattern before.

He had never paid much attention to Matthew before either.

"Aghhh!" he groaned, "Get out of my head!" he murmured to himself, "Free me from whatever blasted spell you've put unto me..." He pushed his hands farther into his eyes, trying to push darkness over the image of Matthew's face, Matthew's heartwarming smile, that lingered on the back of his eyelids.

Matthew didn't go away. But Arthur did manage to eventually fall asleep, dreams riddled with a ginger smile that hid so much, and a scar that he wished he never had noticed.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I think that should finish up this chapter nice and rounded out. I know that, despite the fact I said these chapters would be riddled with fluff, this chapter actually had a lot more story-related things than fluff. Yes, I called it a story. I have most of it thought out so far. (or at least most of the stuff through next chapter thought out)<strong>

**I think that the best thing I could do in honor of my love of PruCan was to give Gilbert a bigger role in the story than most of the others. So he gets the role that kind of spurs the story along on its merry way - he's going to prod people into passing the letters around so that everyone knows and Matt can't deny what happened in history.**

**Also: Arthur's getting some idea that he's obsessed now. He still hasn't figured out that he's attracted yet though. So fucking clueless.  
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* * *

><p>(1) interesting fact - March thirtieth is this Authoress's birthday!<p>


	7. Germany, The Sixth Letter

**A/N: **I do not write Germany often. I'm going to just say this now - Germany is not someone for whom I know the intricate bowels of this personality. So I might be making it up as I go - I'll try to stay true to what Himaruya has set down for him, that he likes to keep order and is a good leader, that people seem to naturally listen to him, and that he has a soft spot for dogs (he has three, after all) and cute things (Must be a family trait. Prussia has it too.) and tends to be awkward when in emotional situations. But as I said, little intricacies might be made up.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, budding Romance

**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, England/Arthur Kirkland, France/Francis Bonnefoy, Prussia/Gilbert Beilschmidt, Germany/Ludwig Beilschmidt. Netherlands/Lars Hofstadter.

**Pairing: **Germany/Canada cuteness (wow, it actually seems cute?), UKCan (Hurry up, Arthur!)

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz **  
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**A Note on Translation**: I am always open to people beta-ing my translations. I don't really know other languages except for some basic Spanish. ^^; So if you want to help correct me on my probably botched internet translations, send me a PM. I'd appreciate it a lot.

**Word Count: **6,176 (More words than ANY other chapter so far!)**  
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* * *

><p><strong>Omake 6: Germany<strong>

"THE SIXTH LETTER"

* * *

><p>Eighteen hours had passed since Maria had given him the lucky coin, and he carried it even now in his pocket. It was strange, giving him a sense of calmness, and Kumajirou was walking beside him as they made their way through the woods on the early afternoon of July fifth. He had arrived home at ten in the morning, and had barely slept for two hours before waking up around noon. He had showered, and he had gotten dressed in clean, loose clothing - all mechanically.<p>

Then he and Kumajirou had walked out of the front door together for a walk through the woods. There was a cool breeze blowing through the foliage, brushing tendrils across his face in an almost comforting manner. A leaf broke off of a maple tree and floated near his face, and he almost idly plucked it out of the air with his left hand. His right hand was shoved in his pocket and curled around the coin.

Kumajirou was walking beside him and looking around at the trees at the brilliant red birds that were flitting through the half-light. The leaves were hanging above him in the canopy, letting a faint green light filter through them onto the path below. Matthew internally basked at the half light - it was not dark, but it didn't strain his eyes. It was a nice change from the shadows that seemed to follow him lately.

Matthew held the coin in between two fingers, letting his breath out in soft exhalations to try and calm himself. Somewhere up ahead on this path was a clearing where the trees surrounded a perfect circle of yellow-green light, where the sun blazed down even on the cloudiest of days, where warmth was.

It was different to almost all humans, and indeed to most of the nations - they experienced just the same half light as on the path, but it was not warm. The breeze there held a cold silence to it that made even the most fearless shiver and want to leave. Very few were admitted with the warmth and light of the place.

Matthew continued walking, lost in thought, and toyed with the coin in his pocket.

By the time he came back to reality, he was standing in the center of that circle of light, feeling the warmth rain down on his face, and there was a faint _skrtch skrtch_ sound off to his left. He turned his head (his neck creaked as though it had grown very used to staying in the same position) and caught sight of a form hunched over a sketchbook with an old 1920s paperboy hat covering their head. He caught the glint of glasses as the person put their light yellow-green colored pencil back into the pencil case to their side, looking at the picture thoughtfully before looking up.

"Oh, hello. How were your thoughts, Matthew? You seemed lost in them." Kristina smiled slightly, her glasses gleaming in reflected light. Matthew began to move, gingerly, wincing as each muscle complained, "You were still as a statue for about an hour... ever since I got here." she turned the sketchbook around to show him a rather impressive color sketch of him standing in shadows, curiously glowing in the picture as though reflecting some strange light. "Forgive me, but you looked so pensive... so thoughtful... so sad... I just couldn't resist drawing it." she turned the sketch around again to look at it, "You were so wistful, as though reliving a painful memory, but you were... were... ah, _le seul mot juste_, where are you... you were _glowing_, almost, as though you were at the same time experiencing a great comfort or joy. I'm not sure how to describe it." she tore off the page and offered it to him as he walked over to stand by the tree she was sitting beneath.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as he accepted the drawing to examine. She started sketching something again, making line after line after line, and he watched her, waiting for an answer.

"It's nice out here." she finally replied, picking up a colored pencil, "I like it here. It's quiet, and calm. It seems like no one else likes this place, so I enjoy hiding out here every once in a while. It's nice to just..." he finally got a good glimpse at her sketch - a fairy, with pale skin and brilliant blue-gray eyes that she spent five minutes on getting just the right shade. "...escape reality... even if it's only temporary, you know?" She began coloring the wings, shifting colors between silver, blue, white, and striking black. "And here, you can almost feel the magic pulsing around you... enveloping you... warming you from the inside out."

She pushed to her feet, glancing at a watch around her wrist, "I'd better get going, I have to head home and get ready for work..." she sighed, before glancing up at him and noticing he was still holding the picture she had drawn, "You can keep that... I was going to put it in my portfolio, but if you want it, you can have it." she smiled softly, a smile that almost didn't reach her eyes. And with that, she walked away.

Matthew looked down at the picture once more, eyes locking onto their counterparts. She had matched the shade of his eyes almost perfectly. And there was a blue-silver tear on the drawing's cheek.

A tear of his stained the paper.

* * *

><p>Gilbert sat down across from Ludwig as the other nation slumped into the couch, having just returned from America's birthday party (he had been bullied into going). He had thought long and hard about what Francis had told him, about what he knew about Matthew (not much) and about what he could guess (still not much, but more than he already knew). He looked up at his younger brother, eyes far more serious than the blond had seen for a long time.<p>

There was a long moment of silence while the brothers looked each other over, examining, appraising each other. Ludwig could tell how serious about this (whatever it was) Gilbert was, his elder brother was practically examining him as though to see if he were _worthy_.

Gilbert finally opened the little cardboard box on his lap, which brought Ludwig's attention down to it. The usually clumsy man's fingers showed alarming care and precision, things that hadn't been seen since the times he once held a gun in his hands. Ludwig had honestly only seen that much care in Gilbert's treatment of his little pet bird since World War two, but here he was, sorting through the box and pulling out little slips of paper almost reverently.

No... tenderly. Fearfully. As though afraid they would break.

Ludwig accepted the large paper sheaf that Gilbert finally pulled out, watching his elder brother sorting through the others before turning his eyes downward at the paper he had been given. He was still confused as to what this all was, but it was obvious that this was important to Gilbert and he would give the albino man the benefit of the-

_...what...?_

His eyes zeroed in on a few key phrases in the first few paragraphs and narrowed a bit. Gilbert hadn't given any explanation to any of this, but thankfully the first section of the larger sheaf seemed dedicated to explaining. He paid no mind to the carefully expressed tone of the words as he read farther and farther ahead, merely read them to find the meaning behind them. And that meaning shook him to his core.

Nations had all tried suicide at least once in their lives, usually before they fought and died once in a war only to come back to life hours later. The revelation that they wouldn't have the comfort of a quick death hit most of them hard the first time it happened - that they would likely die many times before wars tore the nation they represented apart, breaking their spirit and body from the inside out... it was a hard thing to acknowledge and easy to force oneself to ignore. That was the only reason he had accepted that Prussia would be dissolved - even knowing that he wouldn't have his elder brother any more, it was so much easier to just pretend that Gilbert _wasn't dying._

He had never questioned why Gilbert had actually stayed alive after 1947. There had been moments when Gilbert had been more prone to seemingly 'fade', but all that had happened was that Gilbert would grow more loud for a while and he would return to normal. As he continued reading, however, he wondered just what this nation, this _Canada_, had felt if he truly _wanted_ to die.

The letters gave no indication whether he had died before the times he tried to take his life, and he didn't know enough of Canadian history to stake a guess. He was, however, inclined to say that this was the first time the Canadian had actually died. And it was by his own hand, not the hand of an enemy.

He was pulled out of his intense reading by Gilbert holding something out to him, and he took the small slip of paper, taking in the _2_ on the outside.

"_Es gibt keine Zahl einer, es fängt mit zwei an._" There is no number one, it starts with two.

Gilbert rarely spoke in German anymore, preferring to speak in English or even sometimes in French when around Francis. Ludwig had attributed it to his hanging around the man he had a hate-friendship with. He nodded at Gilbert (he had gathered that the letters were every other day from the sheaf) and took the slip of paper.

"_Vorsichtig._" Gilbert's authoritative voice made him pause. _This must mean quite a lot to him_, Ludwig mused, _if he's telling me to be careful._

They continued this way, Gilbert handing him slips and Ludwig in turns reading the slips and reading from the sheaf. Gilbert's hands shook as he handed over days twenty and twenty two, both at once, with his face pained.

By the time Ludwig had read through the entire sheaf and given each of the slips back to Gilbert, Gilbert had packed them away into their cardboard box again. Ludwig was about to ask him why he was so affected - yes, it moved the heart; yes, Canada's plight was distressing, but it was in the past, right?

Almost as though knowing what he was going to say, Gilbert stood up and muttered, "Canada is Mattie." Ludwig's eyes widened minutely - the man that Gilbert would often say he was visiting? - "And he's _still_ being affected by this. So don't write this off as part of the past, _Westen_. It's changed everything that he is, and he's trying to pretend it never happened, just like what you almost did. I can't let that happen, or he might disappear permanently."

With that, Gilbert left the room, leaving Ludwig behind to ponder what had been said, what he had learned...

...and most importantly, what he was supposed to do with it.

* * *

><p>The first time Matthew had heard <em>Missing<em> by Evanescence, he had been home alone and Alfred had just sent him the CD which the song was on. The first time he had heard the song, he had been in the kitchen writing on a piece of paper listening to the CD with mild interest because he had promised he would at least listen to it. The first time he had heard the song, he hadn't actually been paying attention to the CD until the first words echoed out of the speakers.

This wasn't the first time he had heard the song, that July fifth as he dumped about a quarter of the bag of weed into a brownie mix, knowing that the amount was almost double what he usually used. This wasn't the first time he had heard the song.

The first time he had heard the song, he had broken down. Now, he listened to it with only the barest clenching of his heart. He bent down to slip the brownies into the oven, resolutely ignoring the way his eyes stung slightly.

_Isn't something missing...? Isn't someone missing me...?_

He pulled his hands away as though he had been burned by the uncooked brownie pan. They were shaking. He closed the oven and clicked off the CD player, breathing out shakily and shaking his head. He would get the brownies out later, but until then he would go lay down. He had a feeling he shouldn't listen to the CD anymore.

* * *

><p><strong><em>There's not much that can be said for day twelve that isn't said in those four words I wrote... papa had missed a day, almost like he had forgotten <em>**_and no further letters came from him, so I suppose he had**;**_**_ Arthur hadn't even _looked at me_ for almost two weeks except to declare me insolent for not answering him when he found me on day eleven; Alfred had forgotten I existed, wrapped up in his own little world of soldiers and the brightly burning passion of rebellion; Kumajirou had no idea who I was; even _I_ was beginning to question whether I should exist in this world. _**

**_Very simply, I wanted to die._**

* * *

><p>The weather in London seemingly couldn't make up its mind between sunny and cheerful or gloomy and raining, so there was a heavy cloud cover when Matthew arrived in the late afternoon on the sixth of July. He felt drained; he'd been on far too many planes lately (and he wasn't particularly fond of heights). He just wanted to get to his hotel across the street from the convention center where the meeting was being held the next day and collapse in bed and sleep for about fourteen hours. He managed to lug all of his things to the hotel and thanked the bellboy who offered to take his things to his room, getting the card key from the receptionist and giving a small thankful smile before following the bellboy to the elevators.<p>

It was obviously the boy's first job, as he could see the younger man bouncing nervously on his feet. He couldn't be more than seventeen or eighteen, with stress acne breaking out in a few places, and glasses that sat crookedly on his nose. There was a small scar on his cheek just under and to the side of his mouth, and his mouth itself was scabbed and bruised from nervous teeth. He looked a mixture of nervous and determined. Matthew wondered if he had the job to help a family member or something, or whether it was just an independence move.

He followed the bouncing bellboy to his room, thanking the boy for putting his things down in the room itself and not in the hall like some bellboys had done to him before. He pulled out a few pounds that he had had converted at the London airport, handing them to the boy with a smile, and then had shooed the thankful young man out of his room so he could go to bed. It was barely eight-o'clock, and the meeting was at seven in the morning. He wouldn't be getting his fourteen hours of sleep, but he was jetlagged, and he didn't particularly care anymore.

* * *

><p>While Matthew had fallen asleep almost immediately that night before the meeting, Arthur had lost track of the time he had spent pacing his room around his bed, unable to fall into slumber. He was <em>tired<em>, yes, extremely so, but he just couldn't sleep. He stared out his window at the gloomy clouds and briefly wondered if it would rain tonight. Rain would be preferable to the humidity currently haunting the air.

Matthew, like the humidity, clouded his thoughts.

He had been going without tea, without home cooked food, and without anything he could possibly need to get from his kitchen for over a week now. He found himself prone to nausea, in turns sluggish and tired and hyperactive and full of nervous energy. If this was what America felt every day for all the junk food he ate, then Arthur was almost brave enough to go into his kitchen again, if only to make this madness stop. But even as he told himself that, when he stepped toward the door to the kitchen he would still find himself freezing and experiencing nausea. Matthew had killed himself once upon a time using the serrated knife that Arthur had since then been unable to use. The taint of the boy's once death had rotted in his kitchen for almost two an a half centuries.

Arthur curled up on the window ledge in his night attire, holding a book in his hands and watching the clouds. A part of him wished for the rain, the part that also wished for sleep and sweet sweet oblivion, and for Matthew to smile a true smile brought forth by Arthur himself.

Arthur wasn't stupid. He could figure things out just fine; sometimes it just took him a while to break down preconceptions. _There was no explanation for why Matthew would be stuck in his head, because Matthew was never in his head before._

There was an explanation now - quite an obvious one, he realized. He cared deeply for Matthew even more than his heart would admit. It had always been there, lurking, ever since he had lost Alfred and been left with only Matthew. No... even before that. The night two nights before the battles of Lexington and Concord, when it was clear that there was no going back - the night he had struck Matthew, and realized that it was Matthew he had struck of his own thoughts.

Matthew hadn't reacted to the strike, but he had reacted to his realization. Matthew had cried when Arthur had tended to the bruising skin. And the tears had been what clenched at Arthur's heart for centuries to come, though they were locked away behind a shade of denial.

He would see Matthew the next day, at the meeting. He could speak to him... he could talk to him.

He still couldn't fall asleep.

* * *

><p>It was raining in London on the morning of July seventh, when Arthur arrived (a full hour and a half early) to the conference center. He was the one charged with setting up the seating arrangement and getting the diagrams drawn on the big chalk board, and with ensuring that everything was finished and cleaned up. The conference center had been holding some sort of convention the day before, and there was a chance that their room was going to have boxes in it of lost items, props, and other items that had been used. It wasn't often that the custodial department of the conference center left boxes and such in a room when there was a definite meeting the next day or so, but it happened on occasion, and Arthur rather liked the idea of getting there early to ensure that everything was done, even if he had to finish it himself.<p>

It was also an excuse to leave his house - it had become apparent quite quickly that he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night, so he was happy to get out and be _doing_ something rather than sitting there swamped in his own thoughts, seeing Matthew in his mind's eye in progressively more affecting images.

Matthew's small smile, radiating joy onto his face no matter how little it was or how little often it occurred.

Matthew laughing, an even more rare occurrence, but one that had happened and could happen, as Arthur knew.

Matthew's pout, lower lip sticking out in a defiant and disappointed look, fake tears forming in his eyes while he wheedled for what he wanted.

Matthew's face wrenched in true, bodily pain, true tears forming at his eyes and spilling down his cheeks.

Matthew with a splash of blood on his cheek, face serious, as Arthur had seen him during the World Wars whilst the Canadian was fighting right alongside his people.

Matthew avoiding eye contact, eyes drawn and tired, face trying to conceal his hurts but not hiding them completely - and then his mouth curling into a small, genuine, and yet all-too-fake smile. It was the truest smile he seemed able to put on his face, but it was fake even to himself.

Matthew touching the scar on his neck gingerly with one hand, holding a knife in the other.

Matthew curled in a corner, crying from emotional wounds no one had seen before - wounds he never let anyone see.

Arthur closed his eyes as the images flooded his mind again, letting out a shaky breath and trying to focus on his self-assigned job as he walked toward the conference center.

"...Romano can't be by France, France can't be left near Spain _or_ Prussia, Spain shouldn't be left too near to Romano or Romano will throw a fit... Spain also can't be near Turkey, Turkey can't be near Greece, neither of them can be allowed near Japan, no male can sit on either side of Liechtenstein except for Switzerland..." He continued listing numerous combinations of why various nations _couldn't_ be near each other as he walked in and through the halls toward the elevator - their conference room was on the second floor.

As he entered the conference room, he immediately noticed the piles and piles of boxes stacked all about the room. The thing he had feared. He wouldn't be able to move them all by himself even if he _was_ well rested. As it was, he would be lucky to move two or three. He sighed and moved to start moving as many as he could before stopping, having heard the door open.

Ludwig walked into the room, glancing at him briefly before nodding and immediately moving to heft a box. Arthur excused himself from the room (Germany didn't answer) and slipped away. His stomach had begun churning dangerously and he feared he would have to quickly find a bathroom or a trash can.

Moments later, Matthew entered the room.

* * *

><p>Matthew rubbed the back of his neck tiredly as he walked into the room, noting that he was early for the meeting (the meeting had been set back an hour, he hadn't been informed) and that Germany was busy moving boxes out of the conference room. Deciding to be useful, he moved to start helping move the boxes. Germany looked up at him (wait, <em>at him<em>?) and then quickly looked away, appearing to focus on his task again.

Matthew briefly wondered where Prussia was - if he was at the meeting, he would have arrived with Germany. There were the times when he ditched since he wasn't technically a nation anymore, but Matthew knew that the Prussian rather missed the political side of being a nation (not that Gilbert would ever admit it).

They continued working for a long few moments in silence, with Germany giving him occasional thoughtful stares, before Germany finally put down a box and turned toward him, and actually spoke to him.

"You... are Canada, _ja_?"

It vaguely bothered Matthew that the first feeling he felt at being recognized was not that of elation, but of dread.

"_Oui..._ er, yes. I am." he bit his lip, not sure why he was suddenly sensing immediate and certain doom. Germany picked up another box, obviously internally churning and trying to find the right words to say. Matthew picked up a box of his own.

"_Osten _went to visit you a few days ago, _ja_?"

Matthew nodded, walking with his box down the hallway toward the room that they were leaving the boxes in, right next to Germany.

"He cares about you a lot."

"He's a close friend." Matthew mumbled, his voice failing him. _Just say it..._

"Ah..." Germany looked away, eyes locking onto something across the room.

_Just say it...!_

The bulkier blond put down the box he was carrying in the second room, seconds before Matthew put his box down. The silence stretched on between them.

_Just** say**_ something...!__

"I..." Germany cleared his throat, "I learned of your letters."

The ice in Matthew's stomach grew and rose upward to freeze his lungs and heart. He suddenly found it very hard to breathe. His chest hurt. He stopped in the hallway and leaned heavily against the wall, his bangs falling into his eyes as he lowered his gaze and his head.

"Y-You did...?" his voice had dropped even father, from a mumble to hardly a breath. He couldn't force the air through his vocal chords. Panic started clawing at his heart, and he could hear it thumping loudly in his ears. With his back to the wall, he struggled to keep his legs holding him.

_Why couldn't his letters just be lost to the past?_

Germany had stopped when he had stopped, and was now looking at him worriedly. Matthew could barely see that Germany had moved closer unsurely, making to check that he was okay. Matthew could barely see at all.

A sudden pair of hands grasping his wrists snapped Matthew out of it, and as his eyes cleared he could see that there was now a fine bruise forming on Germany's cheek. It would heal in about twenty minutes (being a nation had its ups, for sure), but the fact that it was there at all shocked Matthew.

"W-What-?"

"You need to calm down." Germany's voice now held an authoritative tone to it, no longer awkward - he wasn't being social anymore, he was giving orders. His hands were firm around Matthew's wrists, not painful but enough to ensure that he couldn't move or pull free from the other's grasp until he was calm. Matthew was shaking now, not sure what had happened (though he had a good idea) and afraid. Not of Germany, nor of the gruffer blond harming him (Germany had been quite civil to the world since the World Wars), but more of the fact that he had blacked out again.

_How many times has that happened...?_

After a few seconds of shaking, Matthew closed his eyes tightly and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. Germany stood still while he calmed himself, sturdy and unmovable.

As the shaking died down, Matthew pushed forward off of the wall and clung to Germany's shirtfront. He desperately needed to be held right now. He needed reassurance that he was actually there, that he wasn't disappearing as his voice almost had. There were a few seconds where Germany stiffened, clueless as to what he should do, before Matthew laughed weakly, tears forming at his eyes.

"I j-just really n-need a h-hug..."

Germany, in response, willingly wrapped his arms around Matthew's shoulders and hugged him, though it was obvious that he was still a bit taken off guard at the clinging. After another few seconds of silence, Germany sighed a little and said the words that Matthew possibly needed to hear the most.

"I understand."

* * *

><p>Lars lit his cigarette as he arrived for the meeting, not giving a flying fuck whether the Conference Center workers told him not to smoke or not. He inhaled deeply as he loitered in the conference center entrance hall with about ten of the other nations (the Scandinavians were off in a corner pestering each other, and he could see France and America off to another side. <em>Probably talking about the Dare<em>, he thought).

He let the smoke curl from his mouth, blowing a few smoke rings before becoming bored with the endeavor and just letting it seep from between his lips. The couches across the room were looking very inviting at the moment. He briefly thought about skipping the meeting and just lounging out here.

Another inhale. Another exhale. The smoke was gathering around his eyes now, giving them the usual pleasantly burning feeling that he enjoyed. He briefly wondered where Matthew was.

The other nations were moving in surges toward the elevators now. He moved instead to the stairwell that led to the back hallway. He'd go the long way and walk upstairs instead, it would mean he could keep his cigarette lit longer.

He hoped Matthew was okay.

* * *

><p>Ludwig had pulled away a long half hour before, and Matthew had been wandering the hallways since then, unwilling to go back to the conference room and face anyone just yet. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and wished he had brought his hoodie - though it was warm enough here that wearing one would be impractical, he could honestly use the soft familiarity of the fabric. He had left Kumajirou in Ottawa for this meeting, and had asked Cindi and Kristina to watch him. For a second he allowed his mind to wander and wonder what the three were doing at that moment.<p>

His feet took him down a hallway near the meeting room, at the end of which was a bathroom. He wiped at his cheeks, sighing - his freakout before had drained him, and his face was a bit of a mess. Stopping into the bathroom to splash some water on his face would not go amiss.

He strafed into the bathroom and moved over to the sinks, looking at himself in the mirror. He had to admit even to himself that he looked emotionally strained.

His eyes caught sight of the feet under the bathroom stall door right as his ears picked up the shallow, pained breathing. He turned around to look in confusion as a distinct retching sound rang from the stall.

(He recognized the shoes. Those brown loafers were England's, he'd stake his life on it.)

He moved over to the stall, hesitating half a second before pushing on the door. It was open, so he pushed it in just enough to poke his head through. His eyes locked onto the head of sandy blond hair and he let out a worried sound, "England...? A-Are you okay?" he pushed the door open all the way as Arthur ducked his head down almost halfway into the toilet again, his calloused knuckles turning white and the porcelain cracking from his grip on the rim while the rest of his body spasmed in a painful looking manner. Matthew had to hold his breath to keep from getting sick himself as he knelt down beside England, his hands unsurely beginning to rub the bushy-browed Brit's back.

"You're really sick..." he mumbled in worry, one of his hands moving to feel Arthur's forehead. Arthur's face was a pallid mix of flushed and pale, and there was a small dribble of bile dripping into the toilet from his last violent heave. Arthur looked even worse than Matthew did, if possible.

Matthew chanced a glance down into the toilet and immediately wished he hadn't, looking away quickly. Stomach acid rose in his throat and he swallowed it down harshly. "C-Come on, Arthur..." he helped Arthur stand again when it was obvious he wasn't going to throw up any more, and helped him over to the sink. From there, he ran the water and cupped his hand under it, his other arm supporting Arthur's weight easily. He brought his cupped hand up to Arthur's mouth, helping Arthur take slow, halting sips.

"M-M-Matthew..."

"I don't think you should attend the meeting, Arthur." Matthew said in a surprisingly steady voice, eyes focusing on Arthur's. "You're way too sick. I'll help you back to your house, I'll make you a bowl of soup there and you'll get some rest..."

"Y-Y-You can't...!" Arthur muttered hoarsely, "You c-can't g-go into the k-kitchen...!" he couldn't bear the thought of the knife being in Matthew's hands that popped into his head, despite the fact that he knew soup wouldn't require the knife. He winced in pain as his throat burned, slumped and aching against Matthew's shoulder.

Matthew shifted his weight to lift Arthur on his back, shaking his head, "Arthur... if I'm right about what I saw in that toilet, you haven't had a home cooked meal in days." He started walking, stumbling a bit before he grew accustomed to Arthur's weight. "You need a good meal and a long rest." He continued walking that way, supporting a limp Arthur on his back as he made his way toward one of the exits. Arthur's arms were looped loosely around his neck as he walked and he was supporting Arthur's legs with his hands, leaning forward slightly to keep Arthur from slipping off.

Arthur slowly tightened his arms until he was clinging to Matthew, and Matt could feel it when Arthur's face was buried into his shoulder. They reached the car in silence, Arthur hugging Matthew tightly as though afraid he would disappear any moment, and Matthew trying to keep his thoughts focused on the task he was performing.

When they reached Arthur's car, Matt slipped his hand skillfully into Arthur's pocket and grasped his keys, pulling them out and unlocking the car doors. He pulled open the doors to the backseat and helped lay Arthur down there. "Try to get some sleep..." he murmured as he closed the back doors and climbed into the driver's seat.

Arthur couldn't find the voice to say the words he needed to say.

_Matthew... I'm sorry..._

* * *

><p>Matthew tucked Arthur into bed a while later after he had almost force-fed the British man soup, and Arthur had dozed off. He sighed as he sat back, closing his eyes and letting himself drift and soak in the familiar, forgotten memory feeling of Arthur's big, posh, English house. His hand was still laying on the bed next to Arthur's as he sat in a straight backed wooden chair beside it. He opened his eyes when he felt Arthur's hand find his own and grasp at it.<p>

He could feel his cheeks go a faint shade of red as he sat there, holding Arthur's hand while the other slept. After a few moments, he pulled his hand free and stood, turning to leave the room. There was something he needed to do while he was here.

He followed the familiar path to his and Alfred's old room, moving immediately over to his bed and kneeling down to lift the loose floorboard. He could feel a lead weight form in his stomach.

His letters were no longer there for him to take and burn. Someone else had them.

He knelt there by the bed for a long while, resting his forehead against the mattress. A tear slipped down his cheek.

His past was out of his hands now, out of his hands and into the hands of the world.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Finally done. It's 1:16 in the morning and I've been awake for seventeen hours. I'm going to post this and then go to sleep. Honest. I hope to wake up tomorrow with an inbox full of reviews from my awesome readers!**

**(This is a hint, guys. :3)**


	8. Italy, The Seventh Letter

**A/N:** Feli and Matt, and Lovi and Matt, are just two pairs I feel like I'm gonna have fun with. They're both _bro_ relationships, but different kinds of _bro_ relationships. Like... Feli and Matt, for example is the I'll-be-sad-for-you bro relationship, while Lovi and Matt is more like 'Um... I've got nothing. Let's change the subject' bro relationship. There's a decent amount of awkward in both but it's not really too much. Awkward is more prevalent in Lovi/Matt, I've noticed, but even still, the way I characterize Lovi, his awkwardness is going to be brushed off by his straightforwardness. He's going to put up his attempt at helping and if it doesn't help then, oh well, he tried. No skin off his back.

Okay, now that I've gotten totally off topic, Feliciano... is the antithesis of my personality. I'm quiet and restrained, and very comfortable in my own little corner of the world, while Feli is... bouncy. That's really the only word I can think of to describe him.

...basically, I'm a Matt personality, and I'm gonna be writing myself and Feliciano. I'm not sure yet which is going to be the more difficult.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, budding Romance

**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, England/Arthur Kirkland, Italy/Feliciano Vargas, Prussia/Gilbert Beilschmidt (because Gilbert is going to reappear as a main character in this story at least ten times before I let it end),

**Pairing: **Italy/Canada cuteness, UKCan, Puppy/Can. Because Puppy/Can is cute.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz **  
><strong>

**A Note on Translation**: I am always open to people beta-ing my translations. I don't really know other languages except for some basic Spanish. ^^; So if you want to help correct me on my probably botched internet translations, send me a PM. I'd appreciate it a lot.

**Word Count: **This is gonna be a long one guys: 6,521 words. If you find this as not rambly at all, I salute you.

* * *

><p><strong>Omake 7: Italy<strong>

"THE SEVENTH LETTER"

* * *

><p>Matthew wandered the house now, since he knew Arthur was asleep and he wasn't sure what else he should do. He wanted to make sure Arthur was alright, but he wasn't sure if he should stay in the same place. He figured he <em>could<em> go back to the conference center and attend the second half of the meetings, but he didn't want to face anyone at the moment. Not when he had been struck by such a strong sense of hopelessness only moments before. He had a feeling that if he faced anyone at the moment, even Kumajirou, he would lock himself in a closet until he suffocated a few times.

A few times. _Da__mn not being able to die._ Sometimes he really wished he were human - at least humans had the comfort of knowing that they had the power to end their lives. Nations were cursed to keep going no matter what the human body and mind in them may want.

He drifted down the stairs and into the sitting room, his nose beginning to itch the closer he got to the fireplace. He resisted the urge to sneeze, breathing out slowly and deliberately before going to sit down for about an hour.

The meetings were probably over by now, he thought an hour or so later, or just finishing up, and he had spent the last hour trying valiantly not to sneeze. It was time to move from his spot.

He pushed wearily to his feet, shifting uncertainly. Should he go check on Arthur? He didn't want to risk waking the man up. But at the same time, he didn't really have much to do... there wasn't a part of this house that he had never seen before, or in his recent re-exploration of the house. Granted, the attic was dustier than he remembered it being, but that was predictable... Arthur had never been good at cleaning up there.

He had a listless feeling lingering throughout his system, pulling down on his limbs toward the ground and making his head feel heavy. He briefly thought about taking a nap but had the feeling that if he slept right now, he wouldn't get to sleep any time until late that night. He walked toward the opening room and reached for the doorknob, freezing as he realized how badly his hands were shaking, and how cold the ends of his fingers felt. He couldn't feel the fingertips...

He pulled out his phone, tapping out a numb, garbled text to Stephen Harper: _Hs somethimg wrpng w/ Canda?_

Stephen's response came a few moments later, _Nothing political, or physical that I know of, Matthew. Is something wrong on your end?  
><em>

Matthew slipped his phone back in his pocket, looking closely at his shaking fingers. After a few seconds of watching them shake, the shaking died away and he let out a breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding. He lowered his hand to the doorknob again and turned it, trying to shake the feeling of impending doom that was hovering over his mind - he had had it since the time that Germany had told him that he knew - it didn't make sense to him. He pulled open the door - maybe some fresh air would clear his head - get rid of the fragmented thoughts - at least a little.

Something bounced off the front walk and leaped into his stomach, practically into his arms as he instinctively curled around it and caught it. A wet, rough tongue scraped across most of his face once - twice - three times before it pulled away to yip happily. He tried to look through his now slobber covered glasses to see what it was.

He had gathered that it was a dog of some kind, and either a small one or a puppy at that. The large paws that his hands found seemed to support the 'puppy' idea, as did the excited wiggling of the lower end in the crook of his elbow.

"What are you doing here-? Aghh!" the tongue attacked again, this time as his mouth was open to speak. He sputtered uselessly for a few moments before managing to push the puppy face away from his own, frowning. He looked it over more carefully, taking in the features now that he was paying attention.

It was a male puppy, a mix between a German Shephard and a black lab, he had to guess. It had large chocolate brown eyes with little flecks of green in them, which intrigued him - usually dogs didn't have green eyes. There was also a fair tuft of fur that was longer than the rest on his forehead, leaving a white spot there. It wiggled its cropped tail, making its entire behind move, and nuzzled under his chin happily. The tongue scratched against his neck repeatedly and he did his best not to laugh at it.

"Veeee~ _mi dispiace!_" He looked up as he saw Italy with a leash curled around his hand, on the end hanging a collar. "He slipped free!" The puppy continued squirming happily in his arms, and Matthew had to tighten his hold on the furry lump in his arms to keep it from falling.

The puppy barked a few times and wiggled more, pulling Matt's gaze back down to it. He almost couldn't help but laugh when the tongue scraped across his chin again, "Agh! Excitable little thing..." he murmured in half affection. Italy bounced close enough to slip the collar back on, with a little bit of wrestling, and the puppy whined in annoyance. "He doesn't like collars!" the brunette pouted a little, "It makes it hard to keep him contained."

"He's cute," Matt chuckled, "Where'd you get him?"

"Vee~" Italy seemed to take notice at who he was talking to. After a few seconds of mild confusion, Matt's smile faded a little. "I'm Canada..."

"Canada! Right! _Mi__ dispiace_." Italy smiled in embarrassment, "Um. Germany's dogs Aster and Berlitz - Aster is the Mama - had a litter of puppies and I told Germany that I'd find homes for them! I've gotten through the six others, this little one is the last one left!" He held up the black and brown furred puppy, still smiling, though this time his smile was back to the normal happy smile he usually wore, "I told Germany I could do it all by myself, and I've almost done it!"

"Any reason you brought him here?" Matthew chuckled a bit, feeling a bit of the infectious cheer of the Italian man. "Arthur doesn't tend to like dogs..."

Any time that the British man was faced with a dog of any description, bad things happened. Small dogs, tending to be more vicious and mean in his experience, would chew and tear at his pant legs or bite his ankles until they bled - Arthur would respond by kicking them away, gaining vitriolic exclamations from their owners. Larger dogs were usually the opposite, too kind to the British man, too fond of him. They would like to jump up onto the short man's chest (Which, after several years of wartime in the military and many years in his 'rebel' phase where he smoked, his chest was rather... easy to hurt, now). They would knock him down, and attack him with affection, leaving him flustered and in pain and surly. He would knock them off of himself, then have to keep fighting them to keep them off.

It was safe to say that Arthur wasn't a dog person.

If Matthew remembered correctly, Arthur preferred cats over dogs, birds, and other animals. Matthew had questioned once about rabbits, but Arthur had shaken his head and told the then-child, "Other than Flying Mint Bunny, who takes care of herself and cleans up after herself, rabbits make far too much of a mess! Cleaning the cage most of the time has to happen at least once a day. And you have to refill their water twice a day, and their food three times every two days! No no, rabbits are far too much of a hassle."

Arthur, as Matthew understood, liked cat's for their individuality, their independence, their ability to take care of themselves. They gave affection to those who earned it-those who deserved it-and ignored you otherwise. They weren't constantly around you begging for love, they were content with a few pets here and there and a place designated for them to nap in the sun.

Italy brought the puppy back close to him, keeping a good hold on him, "I wasn't actually going to offer to _Inghilterra._ I just came to offer to the next door neighbors, since someone had to deliver the notes on the meeting, and I saw the opportunity..."

Matthew nodded a little, "Well, where are the notes?" he smiled faintly, "I can put them in Arthur's study."

The puppy, which had seemed to quiet while the two were talking, began squirming in earnest again when Feliciano shifted so that only one arm was holding the dog, in order to reach into his jacket for the folder. With a particularly strong wiggle, the dog managed to slip from Feliciano's arms, bounced once on the ground before his feet gripped the ground.

Then he was off.

Matthew nearly fell over with the speed that the dog jolted between his legs, into the house with a happy yelp, and disappearing around the corner and likely up the stairs. He steadied himself on his feet again before sighing and waving Italy inside, closing the door behind the now worriedly bouncing Italian. "Come on, we'd better catch him before he wakes Arthur up." he said softly, hurrying back into the house after the puppy.

If Italy was bothered, he didn't show it. He merely joined in the chase with an excitement and vigor that soon spread to Matthew. The puppy was very mischievous and clearly good at keeping out of corners, so it was a long few minutes of chasing it and trying to keep quiet. At least its yips were mostly muted, so it didn't echo through the large house. Matthew was the one who finally managed to grab it by the scruff of the neck, holding it up and ensuring it didn't squirm away. The puppy yipped again, wriggling in his grip, and Italy slipped the collar back onto it.

"Vee~ There we go! Got it! _Grazie_, I won't let him get away again!"

"No problem." Matt said softly, handing the puppy back to Italy. "You think you can manage to find him a home on your own? I could take him with me back to Canada, I'm sure I know a few people who would like to have a puppy."

Feliciano chuckled a little, "I'll see if I can find him a home around here for a while more, but if I can't I'll take you up on that offer. Vee~ Do you think Germany will like that I managed on my own?" he bounced a little, holding the puppy in his arms in a way similar to how Matthew held Kumajirou.

Matthew chuckled, nodding slightly, "Alright." he said softly, taking the folder with the notes (They had been taken by Francis, if he recognized the swoopy handwriting correctly) and walking with Feliciano back toward the door.

"Vee. Canada, you want to go out to a club or something tomorrow? I was going to ask Germany but he didn't want to go. He said something about having to clean up after Prussia's messes! But I really wanted to go to the club because it was right across the street from _fratello_'s and my hotel, and _fratello_ said it was probably a bad idea, so it made me curious."

Matt blinked, holding onto the folder lightly in one hand, "E-Eh? But... why ask me?"

"Well, you seem nice!" Feliciano laughed, "And you helped me catch this little one here! I don't think anyone else would have..."

Matthew waved it off, "I'm sure a lot of people would have helped you." he said softly, "I just wanted to make sure that he didn't wake up England. He needs his sleep." His face contorted in slight worry as he glanced toward the stairs again, before settling back into his small, fake smile. Feliciano hesitated at the door for a moment before nodding and walking out with the puppy in his arms, "If you haven't found a home for him by tomorrow evening, then I can take him with me back home." he called out before the Italian reached the sidewalk.

Feliciano glanced back and smiled happily, nodding toward him before continuing to walk on his way.

* * *

><p>Feliciano pat the puppy lightly on his head, smiling happily and muttering endearments in Italian toward him. "<em>Carino<em>~ Well, I guess since we haven't found a home for you, and I did finish my task, I ought to go back to the hotel and tell Germany that I did it!" He nuzzled the squirming dog, "We can find you a home tomorrow morning, _ve_~"

The puppy yipped, and Feliciano laughed, "Or, if we can't, then Canada can!" he hummed a bit, "Though, honestly, I almost never heard of Canada before... I think Prussia might have mentioned something about Canada before, but I'm not sure." he sighed slightly, looking up at the sky in thought, before he was distracted by the overwhelming cloud cover again. England was no fun, all cloudy! He missed the sun. He missed lounging about in the Piazza di Roma, sitting by the fountain with a rainbow flickering in and out of life through the water droplets while he watched the Italian people. It was especially fun when a couple had just gotten married in the Piazza, and he got to watch them run out to a limousine with the bride's dress flowing behind her in a river of almost palpable happiness. He made a tradition for himself that if he had the chance, he would kiss the bride on the cheek before she drove away.

But there were no rainbows flowing out of the fountains here because as far as he could tell, there was _never_ _any sun_.

The puppy licked under his chin to cheer him up, yipping happily with his tail wagging madly. Feliciano laughed a little, "Yeah, I guess you're right..." he wasn't sure what he was saying the puppy was right about. Not getting upset over the lack of sun? Or not to worry about Canada?

There was something about the nation, though, Feliciano mused. He was... very quiet, certainly... but he had seemed really tired and almost sad. And that made Feliciano sad - he didn't like other people not being happy! They were alive! They had this beautiful world to live in! They had friends to spend time with!

...Canada had... _friends_... right...?

Of course he did. Feliciano shook the thought from his head - everyone had friends! _He_ would be happy to be Canada's friend! And to show that friendship, he would be happy for the nation if Canada was sad. So Canada could take from his happiness and make it his own!

He looked down at the puppy, "You'll be Canada's friend too, won't you..."

The puppy yelped happily, wiggling in excitement as though wondering if they were going to go back to that nice blond person who had held him so securely. They reached the hotel where most of the nations were staying for the night (they all had flights back to their respective countries either the next day or the day after) and bounced in, Feliciano waving at the _bellisima_ receptionist girl and saying a cheerful 'Ciao!' to the bellhop boy as he jogged to the elevator. They laughed and waved him in, not minding the dog (the puppy had quickly made friends with most of the staff in the hotel, so now no one really minded him).

Feliciano hummed an Italian song while waiting in the elevator. Germany's room was on the third floor, room 307. He greeted a nation that he passed in the hall (Egypt, who was walking toward the elevator) as he made his way to the room.

"Germany! Germany! I delivered the notes like you told me to!"

The puppy yipped several times, happily, to alert Germany that it was back too. The blond reappeared a few secondss later, looking thoughtfully at Feliciano as he moved over to the couch in the hotel room. The shower was going in the bathroom, suggesting that Prussia was there and indisposed. Feliciano bounced over to sit with him, letting the puppy down to roam around the room after he closed the door. Germany sighed slightly an almost fond smile and muttered, "How did it go?"

"It was fun! _Inghilterra_ was asleep, but I gave his notes to a really kind nation named Canada! Canada said that he would give the notes to England when he woke up."

Germany had stilled curiously when he mentioned Canada, and Feliciano tilted his head slightly, "_Ve_... what's wrong, Germany? Did I mess up?" a flash of panic went through his system at the thought - he didn't want to mess up on a task that Germany gave him! "I'm sorry! I'll go back right now and ask for the notes back, and give them to England personally!""

"_Nein__, nein_, Feliciano." a happy jolt went down his spine like it always did when Germany referred to him by name and not by nation. "You didn't mess up. Canada is a good person and will give the notes to England as needed." there was a moment where the burlier blond was considering what to say next, Feliciano knew.

"Then why did you get all still when I mentioned Canada?" Feliciano frowned, "He's really nice! He helped me catch_ il cucciolo_ - the puppy, I mean - when he got away from me! And - " he cut himself off. Germany had told him that he agreed with _fratello_, that the club was probably a bad idea. He had been nice about it, saying he had to clean up after his brother, but Feliciano knew that the blond didn't approve of the club idea. " - and he said he'd help find him a home if I wanted!"

Germany - _Ludwig, he said I could call him Ludwig_ - cleared his throat to get him to stop talking. "There's something you ought to be told about Canada. He's..." the blond's eyebrows furrowed in thought of how to word it. Feliciano noted that the shower had stopped and Gilbert was wandering out into the main room, a towel around his waist and his hair dripping slightly.

"Hey, Feli!" the silverette cackled, waving happily, before he noted Ludwig's serious face and his smile fell into a frown, "You were gonna tell him _now_? When I was _showering_? Not cool, West. I could so tell it more awesome than you."

"_Ve_, tell me what?" Feliciano's own smile had fallen, and he was now looking between the two in confusion.

Gilbert sighed and disappeared into his half of the double hotel room, reappearing a moment later with boxers on and a cute little cardboard box in his hands. Feliciano tilted his head at it - it looked like it was going to crumble into dust!

Gilbert sat across from the both of them, not caring that he was still mostly undressed or that his hair was still dripping wet. He carefully unfolded the top of the box and started sorting out the slips, just like he had for Ludwig. Ludwig grabbed out the sheaf and handed it to Feliciano.

Feliciano's confusion lingered for another few seconds as he read the first few paragraphs of the small pile of papers. "_Ve..._?"

But before long, even his eyebrows knit together, and his gold eyes began reading faster and in a more focused manner.

The puppy sat a few feet away, watching the three nations on the couch, ears drooping at the heaviness in the atmosphere and tail still. He didn't whine, just watched them.

* * *

><p><strong><em>I<em>** (this was scribbled out very messily, but still readable) **_Alfred and I seemed to grow three times in height on day thirteen. He received a new suit and tie - formal wear, England was going to tote him about as his_ _prize. I was lucky to get bigger versions of the clothes I had had for the years before and a muttered curse from England that I had grown_** **too?****_ Kumajirou also grew a little bit, no longer the size of a teddy that a child could carry around easily, now a more proportionate size_****_, _**_the size he is now, actually_**_, so that he was still small enough for me to carry around but large enough to hide my face in his fur. A small pittance. But one that has become very familiar and at least moderately comforting to me._**

**_The day I really started spiraling out of control was day fourteen. I had looked at my letter to myself on day twelve again, and there was really nothing else I wanted to say to myself. You want to die. You want to. I wanted to. Everything revolved around that one fact. Even writing the letters seemed like torture._**

**_A torture I would endure for only so much longer._**

* * *

><p>Arthur stirred several hours later that evening from his dead sleep, eyes flinching closed again when the faint glow of the setting sun slanted through his window. He counted to ten before making himself open his eyes again, sitting up before too much more damage could be done. He brought a hand to his forehead tiredly.<p>

How long had he been out?

He had arrived at the conference center at seven thirty (the meeting had been pushed from eight to nine, and Arthur hadn't been informed) and had tried to work for a few moments before having to dash away.

He had spent a _wonderful_ half an hour retching into a toilet in the bathroom before Matthew found him, at about 8:07.

Matthew had piled him into the car by 8:15, and had driven him home. He had been force fed soup (he didn't want to imagine the boy going into the kitchen for it) around 8:45, and had fallen asleep by nine that morning.

He glanced at the clock - it was almost seven in the evening. Ten hours. He had been out cold for ten hours.

Granted, he had slept about ten minutes the night before, so the sleep was well used. But still. Ten hours.

He shoved the blankets off of himself, looking down at his boxers (Matthew had apparently stripped him of his outerwear, he had probably been too loopy with nausea to notice) and cursing under his breath. While he did feel immensely better, his stomach having settled down from finally having something decent in it, he was still shaken.

_Matthew._

Where was Matthew?

He climbed out of bed and pulled on a loose pair of pants, a shirt following, before he began an almost frantic search of his house for the Canadian. He wouldn't have left after Arthur fell asleep, would he?

A quick scan of the upstairs found nothing - a folder of notes from the meeting on his desk in his study, with the _Frog's _handwriting; slightly rumpled sheets in the boys' old bedroom, the bathroom untouched - and he spared barely a glance up in the attic -_ really ought to clean that sometime_ - before heading downstairs on quick but quiet feet. He didn't want Matthew panicking and telling him to get back into bed. If Matthew was there.

He had to be there.

He swung around the palisade into the living room, and stopped. There was a mussed up head of wavy blond hair on the arm of the couch, and he was willing to bet that a long, lanky body was sprawled on the rest. He hurried over and peered over the back of the couch - yes, it was Matthew. And thank god, Frifth, and the Queen, his chest was moving.

Arthur almost slumped with relief, holding himself back from brushing a strand of hair out of Matthew's face. He let out a breath of air he hadn't realized he had been holding and moved over to the chair opposite the couch, practically collapsing into it and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

This kind of stress couldn't be good for him. He was so worried that Matthew would simply disappear, now, and it made no sense to him. He realized he cared for the boy, yes, but this irrational panic was just... _stupid_. Matthew had had that scar for centuries, and hadn't disappeared in that time. Why was he so worried now? Nothing had changed.

_Something has. I actually care now._

That was a sobering thought. He lowered his hands from his eyes, watching Matthew's chest rise and fall for a few moments. Such a simple thing... and yet so powerful. Without it, there would be no life in that sweet, caring body, no light to the blue-violet eyes that were at that moment closed. He marveled at it.

After a long few moments, he realized that he couldn't sit there all evening. The day had already been almost entirely wasted and he hadn't been able to do any work. He ought to at least look over the notes for the meeting he missed, even if they _were_ in _Francis'_ handwriting.

He pushed up from the chair, hesitated next to Matthew, then leaned down toward his head. He brushed a bit of hair from the Canadian's cheek and pressed a short, chapped kiss to it. "Thank you... for being you." he whispered, before turning to go back upstairs.

He didn't see Matthew's head turn toward where his was a few seconds before, as though to brush his own lips against Arthur's cheek.

* * *

><p>Matthew wasn't sure what exactly he had dreamed, but he knew it was wonderful. That lovely, calm, contented feeling prevailed throughout it, and at a few points the feeling even seemed affectionate, or adoring. He hesitated to say the word 'loving' - as easily as Francis could say it, he found it hard to pinpoint something that powerful.<p>

His eyes were open. When did that happen? What had woken him up?

Oh god. He had fallen asleep.

Arthur!

He sat up almost too quickly, falling off the couch and landing with a hard but muted_ thump_ on Arthur's carpeted floor. He ignored the pain that shot through his shoulder and pushed to his feet, jogging up the stairs on light feet and poking his head into the Brit's master bedroom. No head of sandy hair. He turned around and sighted the familiar mop in the study, hunched over the desk.

"Arthur..." he sighed, "Feeling better?" he forced a cheery smile on his face, though right now he just felt tired, which made little sense as he had just slept a good - a glance at the clock - three hours.

Arthur turned around, eyes locking on Matthew's for once with a clarity that startled him. "Much better. Thank you, Matthew, for taking me home."

"O-Oh, it was no problem." Matthew blinked for a few seconds. Arthur had recognized him. Instantly. That didn't happen on a _good _day. "I cleaned up the kitchen too. There was a layer of dust on everything. And I see you found the notes from the meeting - Italy stopped by to drop those off."

"Thank you." Arthur said again, briefly glancing back at the notes.

"You don't feel sick anymore?"

Arthur's lips twitched upward in an almost amused manner. Matthew was still fussing over it? Hadn't he already said he felt much better? "Not at all." Well, that was a little white lie, but if it made Matthew stop worrying...

Matthew smiled thankfully, before turning, "W-Well, in that case... I'd er, better be getting back to the hotel. If I'm lucky Alfred will have taken notes on the meeting. If I'm extremely lucky, they'll be readable and I'll be able to copy them."

Arthur gestured down at the notes Italy had dropped off, "I'm almost done with these. You could take them afterward. It will only be about five minutes."

"Alright." Matthew smiled again, hesitantly this time, and turned back to the study. He stepped in a step, then paused. Arthur waved him in.

He walked around to the walls of the study, which had several bookshelves. One shelf was dedicated to Sherlock Holmes alone, and he ran his fingertips over it lightly. He scanned the titles, the stories popping into his head as he read each one.

"You could borrow a book as well, if you'd like." Arthur said idly without looking up from the last page of Francis's notes. Surprisingly Francis had been focused, and hadn't put any innuendos in them as far as he could see.

Matthew chuckled, "No, no. I've already read most of these... just reminding myself of the stories."

Arthur finished the last page and handed them over to Matthew, "Here you are. Just get them back to the frog when you're done copying them. Saves me the trouble of doing it." he tried to be jovial on the last line, but Matthew didn't laugh. Instead the Canadian's eyes seemed to wander away as he took the folder and turned again.

"Well, if you're feeling better... I'll, um... see you?"

He resisted the urge to sigh and nodded, "Alright. Be well, Matthew."

"I will. Thank you."

And then he turned, and was gone. Arthur stayed still for a long moment, wondering why he felt empty.

* * *

><p>The next evening almost snuck up on him. Before he knew what was happening, Feliciano was bouncing outside his hotel door, dressed in casual clothes, and was practically pulling him out of his room. He seemed twice as happy as usual, though Matthew could have been imagining it, and he chattered most of the way to the elevator in Italian. He didn't let go of Matthew's arm while they were in the elevator, though Matthew brushed it off as excitement.<p>

They walked from the lobby of the hotel, and Matthew realized what Feliciano had meant by the club being right across the street. It was barely a jog before they were in front of the doors, with the bass pulsing through them. Even if the music itself was unrecognizable until they opened the doors, it already seemed energized with them just standing outside of it.

Feliciano was the one to pull the doors open and tug him inside. The British rock music inside was interspersed with American songs and some songs in other languages that Matthew couldn't recognize. He noticed there wasn't much French.

Feliciano practically dragged him to the bar, where he cheerily asked for a glass of wine. Matthew had sighed and, deciding to go with the flow, ordered a beer. Before he could even think twice about his order, he had a bottle of Samuel Smith's in his hand and the bartender had moved on to the next customers.

Feliciano took a gulp of his wine and smiled cheerily, "This is fun, right!" he said loudly over the music. The Italian actually looked more out of place at that moment than Matthew did, strangely. But he was obviously delighted, and his cheer had an infectious quality to it so Matthew just smiled and nodded.

"The dance floor seems a bit dangerous though!" he half-shouted back, barely getting his voice over the music. He gestured toward the pulsing, moving mass of bodies and leaned a bit away from it. Feliciano looked at the dancing people and bounced up, grinning slightly, before sauntering to join them.

Sauntering being a relative term, Feliciano didn't really saunter. But it looked like he was trying to saunter, it just came out as more of an excited skip. Before Matthew could raise his voice again to stop him, Feliciano was out among the bodies, probably having the time of his life.

Matthew sighed and took another gulp of his beer.

After a few moments, Feliciano reappeared with his wine glass half empty, breathless and beaming, and he sat down next to Matthew again. "This is great!" he breathed. "You're having fun too, right?"

Matthew shrugged. Clubs weren't really ever his thing, they were too... energetic. Even watching everyone dance had an effect of tiring him out. He definitely preferred a slower pace to life. But he had come here because Feliciano had asked, and it would have been rude to say no. "It's okay." he said, as the music shifted from one song and became quiet enough for him to talk calmly again.

"You don't seem like you're having fun." a female voice called from behind him, and he turned his head to look at the girl. She had large, fake eyelashes and bleach blond hair with blue and pink highlights in it. On her other side was a practical mirror image, but this one had green and purple streaks in her hair.

"Lighten up, dude~!" Green streaks giggled, leaning toward him, "You're too cute to be all depressing and shit. This place is the bomb!"

Blue streaks laughed and nodded, also leaning toward him, "Real cute. You been here before? I think I'da remembered a cutie like you~"

Matthew looked over his shoulder toward Feliciano again, but it seemed that the Italian had bounced off into the dancing crowd again, leaving him alone. The two girls smelled overwhelmingly of liquor - the whole place did, but these two in particular. Green streaks nodded enthusiastically as he turned back toward them, smiling a megawatt smile. He bet it had cost her a million to remove all of the liquor stains from her teeth the last time she had them whitened.

"Hey, you know, if you're not having fun out here, there are back rooms~" Green streaks giggled giddily again, tilting her head in an attempt to be seductive.

"Yeah~" Blue streaks agreed, "I'm sure we could entertain you~"

He tried to fend them off, looking frantically for the brunette who had disappeared into the crowd.

Practically the instant Feliciano reappeared, Matthew grabbed his arm and weaved them through the crowds to the door. He almost slumped outside, his head aching.

"_Ve...?_ What's wrong?"

"I just..." Matthew shook his head, breathing shaky, "I a-actually prefer the quiet."

Feliciano's face sobered slightly, and he seemed to hesitate for a few seconds. Then, timid and almost nonexistent, the Italian spoke up again in a voice that reminded Matthew far too much of his own.

"L...Like you were when America dared you?"

Matthew forced himself to keep breathing, though a pain started low in his stomach and traveled up to rest in his chest. After a few seconds of tense silence, Feliciano bit his lip and mumbled "_Mi dispiace_..." before hugging him.

"I shouldn't have said anything..."

"Wh... who told you?" Matthew asked weakly, almost leaning into the hug.

Feliciano hesitated a few seconds, Prussia's words echoing in his mind. _Don't tell him I'm spreading the letters, Feli. He already thinks I'm a dick, I don't want him to think I'm trying to hurt him._ He finally loosened the hug and shrugged, "Ludwig told me." Ludwig told him that Matthew already knew about him knowing, so it would be okay and kind of the truth anyway.

Matthew swallowed, sighing, before he gently pushed Feliciano off and stood. He didn't hear - couldn't hear - the Italian's weak protests as he walked back across the street. He was going to lock himself in his room and try to disappear for a long while.

Feliciano pushed to his feet when it became obvious Matthew wasn't going to stop, and ran to catch up with him. When they were out of the street, he grabbed Matthew's arm and stopped him, turning the Canadian to face him. "You don't have to be alone in this!" he tried weakly, "_Per favore_, Canada, if other people know, they can help you heal! You have friends you can talk to, family! You can talk to me!"

Matthew pulled his arm away, turning a pained expression to Feliciano before turning away and continuing to walk, "This won't heal. So I don't need or want people to know."

Feliciano stood still as he disappeared into the hotel, feeling more helpless than he had in a long time.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay. So. I'm just gonna say my muse was a bitch about this for about a month and a half, as was real life, so there was literally about a month where this sat still and wasn't updated at all. Oh, I tried, believe me. I opened up the document every damn day. "I'll get this chapter done before November." ... "I'll get this done before Veterans Day." "Before the end of November." "Before Pearl Harbor day." "Before Christmas." "Before New Years."<strong>

**Well, I didn't make ANY of my deadlines. And they just kept getting farther. I finally just made myself sit down, not open anything else BUT this document, refuse to procrastinate, and WORK. So, it's safe to say I got about five thousand words written in this one day alone. I felt very productive. Just to warn you, productive days like this are few and far between. So don't expect another chapter all that soon. If it comes, great, but don't be disappointed if it doesn't. Please.**

**That being said, it's almost midnight and I've been working on this for almost six hours straight. I would very much appreciate waking up to three or four reviews - more would be even better.**


	9. Romano, the Eighth Letter

**A/N:** Fuck excuses, let's just write some fanfiction.

**Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, budding Romance (still... god Arthur, stop being so damn _British_ and just _tell him_.)

**Characters: **Canada/Matthew Williams, England/Arthur Kirkland, Italy/Feliciano Vargas, Prussia/Gilbert Beilschmidt, Romano/Lovino Vargas, Germany/Ludwig Beilschmidt, Original characters and Self inserts Oh my!

**Pairing: **UKCan, Romano/Canada cute not-quite-fluff. THIS IS ALL INSANELY PLOT RELEVANT YOU GUYS.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia - Axis Powers, which is owned by Hidekaz **  
><strong>

**A Note on Translation**: I am always open to people beta-ing my translations. I don't really know other languages except for some basic Spanish. ^^; So if you want to help correct me on my probably botched internet translations, send me a PM. I'd appreciate it a lot.

**Word Count: **4,505. **  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Omake 7: Romano<strong>

"THE EIGHTH LETTER"

* * *

><p>A plane left London the next morning, July ninth, around one AM before most of the nations had woken up, on its way back to the Toronto Airport. Matthew used the early morning flight to try and go back to sleep. He honestly wished he could sleep through the entire seven and a half hour flight, rather than just the first few hours of it, but the only way to do that would be to very quickly become inebriated, and he doubted the attendants would give him <em>that<em> much liquor any time before noon.

One of the pains of being a nation. Save for a few different types of liquor for each of them, they very rarely got drunk. It would have taken enough starch-based alcohol to kill a champion drunk to make Matthew even tipsy. Grape based alcohol like wine would have at least made him fall asleep faster, but the plane didn't have wine. So in an alternative, as the plane was preparing to take off, he bunkered down in his seat with a pillow around his head, closed his eyes, and blocked out the world.

Matthew was one of the few nations who actually didn't enjoy flying, and who honestly got air sickness during takeoff and landing if he was aware of what was happening. Alfred, by comparison, loved flying and had joined up with his air force during the wars he was fighting rather than puttering along with his government. It was one of the differences between the brothers that Alfred didn't tease him about – Matthew was too miserable during flights to permit any kind of humor about his situation at all.

As the plane took off, he tried to keep thinking of light and happy things to keep himself from feeling nauseous, and kept his eyes resolutely closed.

He wondered how Kumajirou was.

He wondered what had happened in Canada while he was in London.

But mostly, he wondered how long he would spend at the hockey rink when he got home.

* * *

><p>'How long' turned out to be about four hours in a deserted rink that wasn't even technically open yet.<p>

He had returned to his old tactic of skating in circles, trying to keep his puck in the smallest circle he could manage. If he kept his eyes locked on the little piece of plastic long enough, the world around him and his circle and his puck would start to blur and disappear. Eventually, even the puck and the hockey stick in his hands would disappear, until it was just him in his never ending circle. He never let it last much longer after that, though, fearing blindly that eventually he would fade from his own awareness too.

It was during one of his refocusing moments at nearly seven thirty that morning (timezones confused even him, and he comprised of about four of them - he'd been awake a good eleven and a half hours and had left London at, what in London time had been, one AM.) that he heard the chatter coming onto the ice. Familiar voices, talking to each other, unaware that he was there just yet.

"Put him down, put him down! I don't know why you keep trying to hold him like that; he must weigh forty or fifty pounds—"

"He's used to being held like this though, he doesn't squirm!"

"But it must be killing your arms!"

"You're the one who said you wanted to come with me to work, Cin, and we couldn't exactly leave him at Mattie's house. Remember what happened last time?"

"Ugh, I guess you're right. Took us four hours together to get it all cleaned up again. Honestly, why Mattie goes through the hassle to keep this lug, I don't know."

"_Canada_!"

He had looked around at that point, eyes widening, and saw Kumajirou jump very suddenly out of Kristina's arms. The force of his back paws jerking into her stomach sent her sprawling onto the ice, curling up around herself and looking like she was going to be sick. The bear had then skittered across the ice for a moment before his claws caught and then rocketed toward him, making him scramble to throw the hockey stick away before it would be snapped by approximately forty eight pounds of polar bear.

Then Kristina hadn't been the only one sent sprawling onto the ice by said forty eight pounds of polar bear. Forty eight pounds which were directly on his chest and a very scratchy tongue that was coating his face thoroughly.

He sputtered, trying to push Kumajirou off for a moment before just sighing and letting Kumajirou coat him in slobbery bear kisses. When the bear had stopped licking him and had switched to just rubbing his face all over Matthew, Matthew finally brought himself into a sitting position and shivered as he hugged the ball of heat in his lap. The ice had soaked through his back and the seat of his pants, so he was thoroughly cold now, but hugging the forty-eight pounds of fur and muscle under him was a wonderful replacement for body heat. Even if his face _was_ a mess now.

"And that's why he keeps the bear." a matter of fact voice made him look up at the other two, seeing Kristina getting back to her feet and Cindi holding her arm. "I don't think I've ever seen closer friends... well, maybe me and Ash, before I moved. Took us seven years to get that close though, and it was still a pretty weird friendship-with-benefits sort of thing."

She stumbled her way over the ice toward him and he realized she wasn't wearing her skates, which were actually slung over one shoulder.

Then the realization struck.

Kumajirou had _called him Canada_.

* * *

><p>He should have been angry. He should have been worried. He should have been terrified. Because the girls who had somehow become so intrinsically involved in soothing his aching soul had to have heard Kumajirou talk. And call him Canada. And that would mean explaining.<p>

He should have been angry. Worried. Terrified.

But he was _elated_.

His breathing had gone jagged as he curled even more tightly around the bear, hands pressing into the muscles beneath them with more solidity than they had for about the last two hundred and thirty seven years. He felt more real now than he ever had since the bear had first strung together the question that would shape the rest of his life - _who are you?_

If he had been aware of what was happening around him at that moment, he would have noticed Cindi and Kristina chatting softly off to one side, completely unperturbed, and he would have seen them coming to the conclusion that they shouldn't interfere. And he would have noticed that they seemed to be acting like Kumajirou talking was nothing new to them. He would have seen them walking away, continuing to chat about inconsequential things (the topic seemed to be how watermelon flavored things made no sense as watermelons in general have very little flavor, and the flavor they did have tasted nothing like the flavor provided in candies and drinks).

If he had been aware of the world around him at the moment, he would have heard the soft words from the both of them as they walked away about strength of heart and mind and soul. He would have felt something light down on his shoulder before curling up in his sweatshirt hood to hide. But he wasn't aware of the world anymore - all that mattered was the nose nuzzling under his chin, the ball of fur that was shaking slightly in time with him, the best and first friend he had ever had.

Kumajirou knew who he was. The rest of the world...

...could _fuck off_.

* * *

><p>Lovino's day began much like any other, that July ninth. He woke up to Feliciano having sneaked into his bed. Notmally he didn't mind this - his brother had always been a cuddler - but he also woke up to the smell of alcohol wafting off his twin.<p>

And that pissed him off.

"You went to that stupid club even though I told you not to! _Idiota_! _Bastardo_!" he had flung his twin off of the bed gaining a whine of protest from the younger male. It was in the middle of a stream of Italian insults, however, that he noticed the small sniffle.

The quiver of the other's lip.

He hadn't even been halfway near as crass as he could have been, and Feliciano was crying.

Something, he knew instantly, was up. He slipped off of the bed and wrapped his arms around Feliciano's shoulders, hugging his brother as the dam broke and the other began to sob.

"I didn't mean it that much, Feli." he mumbled, looking a bit chagrined and awkward. The shaking form holding onto him buried his face into Lovino's shoulder, and shook his head there.

"No...?"

"Not you." Feliciano mumbled, and Lovino felt a strange mixture of confusion and worry. Feliciano never mumbled, not when he could help it. If he wasn't loud and proud about his emotions, he was a good deal worse than Lovino had first expected. The southern Italian pushed the other to sit in front of him so he could stare pointedly at Feliciano.

"Tell me what's wrong."

* * *

><p>"Fuck! I don't want anything to do with you!" He snarled toward the two Germanic nations (well, the German nation and the Germanic ex-nation) while Feliciano dragged him toward them. His brother had managed to stop crying a while before, but had refused to explain anything. Not without help.<p>

And apparently it involved Prussia and Germany.

"It only involves us peripherally." Germany said slowly, allowing Feliciano to cling to his shoulder. "Are you certain you wish to have him know, Italy?"

"He's my brother." Feliciano nodded, "And... And he'd know a lot better than I do."

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight." Lovino had listened to their brief explanation, and was now sitting with his arms crossed in one of the armchairs in the German brothers' suite. The other three were sitting on the couch across from him, Prussia with a box in his lap and Feliciano clinging to Germany. "Feli got upset because I mentioned the club and reminded him that the nation he <em>went with<em>, whom I have no fucking clue who he is, has been having issues lately?" He scowled, "Why the fuck does it matter so much? And why'd you say I would 'know a lot better'?"

"Read." Prussia ordered, pulling a thick sheaf of paper from the box in his lap and handing it over. Lovino noted right away it had been folded up and unfolded several times already. After a dirty look to the albino, he reluctantly settled in to read (only because Feliciano was looking at him beseechingly).

But his scowl wouldn't be able to stay.

Perhaps it was a mixture of the 'overshadowed by brother' and 'mostly ignored' aspects that got to him. Those were things he was _very_ familiar with.

Perhaps it was the desperation in the words, fear and helplessness so tangible that even the careful neatness of the written scrawl couldn't hide it. Maybe that was what made his heart clench.

Maybe it was the fact that he had had fears of disappearing once too.

But Canada was a _massive_ country, it would have been nearly impossible for people to just forget about it, right? He wasn't in danger of being assimilated into another country as Lovino had been. Hell, Lovino technically was never even a country, he was a delineation of Italy - Southern Italy, Roman Italy, Italia Romano... He was never his own-

... or maybe it was the fact that at one point, Canada actually _wanted_ to disappear.

The cold feeling that had settled in Lovino's gut was sharp and painful. Yeah, it was that. That was what tipped the scales from confusion and aggravation to sympathy. It had to be bad if non-existence was preferable.

Prussia and Germany were somber as the slips were passed, one by one, over to Lovino. Every word on the tiny slips of paper was another cold stab. As Lovino read, they explained the things that had been happening with Matthew over the last several days, with people starting to find out about the Dare. He barely listened enough to understand the words' meanings.

All that mattered to him right now were the words on the page.

* * *

><p><strong><em>What can I say? I can complain; I can whimper and cry; I can curl up and wish again and again that I could have died… The Dare was hard. I wanted to die. I didn't know at the time that nations can't die, not without their entire land being torn apart, their people suffering, their essence crumbled in the hands of an enemy or a force of nature. I didn't know. At the time, I was too broken to think anymore, to wish for anything except for some kind of release. I wanted to die.<em>**

**_I decided I would._**

**_I even wrote the suicide note for it._**

* * *

><p>It was one PM in Toronto when the plane touched down.<p>

Matthew had begun the process of cleaning, since he had been sorely ignoring it for the last few days even before his London trip. Cindi and Kristina had managed to keep the house relatively tidy but they didn't have the trained eye to find _all_ of Kuma's messes. The bathroom ceiling, for example. Neither of them thought they had to check for toothpaste there.

In the oven, another batch of brownies was baking - spiked with another quarter of the kilo Lars had given him. The radio was on and set to a music channel, one that played the scores of movies. It was his normal choice of music when he cleaned, and idly Matthew was humming along with a few of the tunes he knew. Kumajirou was curled up on the couch, chewing and tearing at a rawhide bone like a dog while his coal black eyes stared at the television screen. He had been watching cartoons all morning (Matthew wondered when the bear had gotten so into Spongebob Squarepants) as per orders of Matthew to not move a muscle. The cartoons and the bone had been his insurance for a chance to clean properly.

The oven went off at 1:13, and he had put the brownies on a rack to cool before turning to look around his house again, eyes narrowed and focusing like a hawks to find the smallest of stains.

For once, his careful examination turned up nothing. He smiled faintly and pulled off his cleaning clothes, the rubber gloves and apron and the handkerchief that held his hair back. He looked rather like a girl wearing them, but had learned the hard way how difficult it was to get stains out of fabric. He tossed the gloves into the trash can and folded up the apron and handkerchief, tucking them away in a drawer and moving to go flop down next to Kumajirou. The bear shifted his weight so that he was leaning heavily against Matthew's side, eyes never leaving the TV.

Matthew was just settling in to enjoy the mind numbing cartoons himself when the doorbell rang, and the all-too-familiar cold feeling formed in his gut. Kumajirou growled at the door, fur standing on end. Even though he didn't want to, he forced his legs to work, forced himself to stand up, to move over to the door.

His unknown visitor hovered in a corner up by the ceiling, watching as he twisted the knob with an already shaking hand.

He looked out at the male on his front step, face already more pale than it should be and looking slightly tinged with green at the prospect of what was to come. "Your brother told you then..."

"Told me what?" the voice was soft, annoyed.

The unknown visitor frowned slightly, unable to see the second visitor from their vantage point. But they didn't dare leave their hiding place.

"About... about the letters."

"...what letters."

Even the hider could tell that last statement was a purposeful lie. The intonation was that of sympathy, understanding. This second visitor knew about these mysterious 'letters' but was pretending that he didn't. Matthew stared out his doorway for a moment before stepping aside, gesturing the guest in. The hider heard him whisper in an almost broken voice.

"..._thank you_..."

* * *

><p>It was the first time that Matthew ever willingly told anyone, and he barely even knew Lovino that well.<p>

* * *

><p>The music box's lid was heavy for someone with such small fingers, but she managed to pry it open without too much work, considering. The insides were lined with plush, and a little porcelain ballerina stared out at her lifelessly. There was a faint pink glow cast on the dancer from front and back, reflected off of the mirror in the lid of the music box. The chipped paint on her tutu was worn down and almost white again where it had once been the same pink as she was - she should know, she had viewed Arthur's dreams, and had seen him give this little gift when he dreamed of the day again...<p>

The crank, she knew from the dreams, was on the side. Bobbing a little on her feet she made her way around to find it and began twisting it as best as she could. The music began haltingly, a tune that she was sure would have been bouncy if she could twist the crank right and then let it wind down. She hesitated a moment, looking over her shoulder to see if the music box's owner had woken up. She was kind of uninvited after all.

Sometimes it was a hassle being only three and a quarter inches tall. She knew her mother had told her she would grow to a full four inches when she was fully grown rather than her pre-growth-spurt fifteen. But there were other times she was happy she wasn't sixteen and 'grown up'. She could still enter houses uninvited until her sixteenth birthday.

She had gotten her wings this year. They still looked the same as a butterfly's, but the butterfly wings would fall out when her purely magic wings were ready to sprout, the wings that would be made of whatever color light she wanted them to be, that would hold her more steadily with their ethereal power than these flimsy gossamer wings. She could hover with these wings somewhat, but it tired her out.

She twisted the crank again, hearing the notes drift free again, and glanced over her shoulder once more.

Still asleep.

But there was still a pair of coal black eyes staring at her.

She froze in place as the eyes appraised her, before looking up at the music box's owner, heaving a sigh, and going back to sleep themselves. She let out the breath she had been holding and looked at the music box again. She had wanted to see the ballerina dance, but this was looking like a less safe proposal every time. Perhaps she should just do what she had opened the music box for in the first place - use the mirror.

The wings on the tiny fairy's back fluttered and brought her up over the edge of the music box, where she stepped down lightly and looked at herself in the mirror. She pressed her fingers to her face, dragging her lower eyelids down to stare at the hot pink eyes that were staring back at her. She wasn't feeling pink anymore. Something about the air...

She concentrated on the eyes in the mirror before her, forehead creasing with effort, until they had turned a pretty, if bright, poisonous lime green. Satisfied with her eyes, she turned her focus to her hair. After a few seconds its pale pink shimmered to a darker hunter green.

The clothing was always the hardest part when she practiced her magics by changing her color scheme. She had to think of each individual piece of clothing, since they weren't part of her body, and each time they would turn a slightly different shade from the rest. It took all of her focus to make each item of clothing the right shade.

When the light that reflected through her skin was as green as her eyes and hair and clothes, she looked at herself in the mirror again and smiled faintly. She was getting better at this magic stuff.

She looked at the ballerina once more, longingly. She wished she was good enough to make her dance properly...

Or at least to make the music play right...

She shook her head of the thoughts. Perhaps when the owner of the music box wasn't asleep five feet away.

She hoped Arthur wasn't mad that she left. She knew her mother must have been in an absolute tizzy by now, so Arthur would know. Frifth, her mother, rarely left him out of the loop of anything that occurred in their realm.

She sighed at the thought of her mother. Well meaning, but she got in the way of the funner things of life a lot...

But then again, her mother _was_ kind of the queen of the fae.

* * *

><p>In England, Arthur Kirkland woke to a screech of indignation. A very small, very high pitched, very familiar screech of indignation. He groaned slightly and closed his eyes again, covering his head with a pillow as he realized what must have happened.<p>

"_Iiri_." he muttered, listening to his tiny queen yelling orders at her subjects to find her daughter.

* * *

><p>When all was said and done, Lovino sat in silence for a moment, processing everything while seated across from Prussia, Germany, and his brother again.<p>

"How did you get those?" he finally asked softly, voice low and dangerous, eyes moving up to lock on Prussia with a fearless, absolutely and righteously furious look on his face. It didn't take a genius to come to the conclusion Prussia was the one keeping hold of the papers, and the one passing them around. Every part of him, every fiber of the Vatican-raised God-fearing Original Catholic, was _outraged_.

"Francis gave them to me." Prussia said just as seriously, red eyes glowing with a challenge. One that normally, Lovino would back down from.

This was not a normal moment.

"So they're not even your secrets to tell?! And you're just _spreading them around and hurting him even more__?!_"

Prussia recoiled, as though he was being physically wounded by the words that Lovino had spit toward him. But Lovino wasn't done - no, he was far from it. His amber eyes were glowing with fire that could rival the holy fires of Sodom and Gomorrah. Feliciano whimpered slightly - he had only ever seen Lovino this angry once, when he had been told Italy was being reunified, and it wasn't certain whether Lovino himself would continue existing.

But this was just that much more scary. Lovino had been acting out of self-preservation then. Now, it was outright _murderous fury_.

"He said it himself! He doesn't want to remember it! He doesn't want it to have ever happened! Why would you spread around the skeletons in someone's closet, even under the guise of it being for their own good?!" the short, stocky Italian let off a string of curses in his heart language, becoming even more clearly enraged when his curses slipped out of Italian entirely and into the old Latin that _Nonno__ Roma_ had used, curses that hadn't been heard in centuries and had long lost their meanings, but were the only things that carried enough weight and force behind them.

"He needs to face this-!" Prussia was yelling back, but it was no use - Lovino cut him off... with a fist.

"You're _killing him! _Can't you _fucking idiots _see that** _you're __killing him with__ this?!_**" The words echoed into silence, Prussia clutching his broken and bleeding nose in one hand and sprawled on the floor. Germany had moved to restrain Lovino but had frozen, the words having struck home with the agonized crack in Lovnio's voice. The crack that told even more than his fury had. Prussia's face had gone even paler than normal, a sickly gray tinge to it, and his eyes were wide and terrified and struck with the same kind of agony as the realization reached him as well.

Feliciano's mind jumped back to the day they told him of the reunification again as he watched the way Lovino was slowly breaking now. The way Lovino's face had crumpled while he was screaming at them, the way the screams had cracked into quiet but hysterical sobs.

( - whispering that he didn't want to die, didn't want to disappear - )

The way his brother's legs gave out beneath him, bringing him to his knees. The way his shoulders shook with every quiet gasp for air around the tears and the way his head tilted back toward the ceiling - toward _God_. The way his hand clutched at the rosary he had worn for nearly a thousand years. The way his lips moved without a sound escaping them.

( - silent pleas to God that this wasn't happening - )

The purest feeling of pain that was forming in Feliciano's chest as he watched it happening. The way Lovino's silent prayers slowly, so slowly, gained a voice, and words that seemed to contradict everything.

( - whispers that he was fading, agonized and also relieved - )

And then the way that the tears making tracks down Lovino's face dripped to the floor as his entire body shuddered and lurched forward to curl into a ball. The way the whispers became a mantra.

( - he hadn't wanted it to ever happen, to ever _have happened - _)

And suddenly Feliciano realized he wasn't looking at his brother. He wasn't seeing the male he grew up with, the one who he had seen at his strongest and his weakest times. Lovino wasn't expressing his own emotions right now. These... these were Canada's.

Emotions that had always been there, but never expressed.

Emotions that had never been understood the way they were understood now.

The emotions that no one had ever even seen broiling under the quiet nation's skin, until one almost forgotten Italian took the time to look.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I have no excuses. Here, have angst.<br>**


End file.
